


Every Little Thing He Does (is magic)

by jezziejay



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Curses, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Magic, Romance, Small Towns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 09:19:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 65,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16595153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jezziejay/pseuds/jezziejay
Summary: Jonny Toews is a bewitching man who moves into a mysterious mansion in a small town. Soon, he opens Bell, Book & Candle, a curiosity shop full of candles, lotions, etc., and is enthralling the children of local police chief (Patrick Kane), who believe he is a witch (but not a bad one.) But not everyone in town is appreciative of their quirky new neighbor, and it may take a little bit of magic for him to truly become part of the community.





	Every Little Thing He Does (is magic)

**Author's Note:**

> I am a very difficult person to beta for, given my many, many, many changes of mind. So huge thanks to [CoffeeKristin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeKristin) for cheering me on from the very beginning, for reading random chunks of this when they hit her inbox, and for never letting me forget that this story needed an ending.
> 
> And to [allthebros](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthebros) for taking this monster on recently, for combing through every part of it, multiple times, for making sure that I caught every ball I threw in the air, and for finally convincing me to give American spelling a go. But most of all for editing that sex scene and turning it into something legible.
> 
> Also, thanks to [saudades](http://archiveofourown.org/users/saudades) for reading and advising on earlier drafts.
> 
> You guys!! <3 <3 <3
> 
> Thanks also to Madelyn for the prompt.
> 
> Finally, deleting the first two chapters of the original posting was a really difficult decision, particularly as so many people had left such lovely comments and kudos. And it may seem on a reread that I haven't changed a whole lot - but I wasn't happy with it, and what was here was standing in the way of me finishing the story. But just to say that I appreciated every response. <3

The mysterious Jonathan Toews arrives mysteriously in the middle of the night and takes up residence in the mysterious mansion at the top of the mysterious hill.

“You should check it out,” Hartzy suggests, shrugging his shoulders.

Patrick finishes locking his gun away before asking, “Check what out?”

“The new guy that moved into the Mourns. Maud Smythe swung by earlier to complain about some very creepy noises coming from the house, and Jack Rhodes swears that he saw pink rabbits jumping around on the lawn.”

Patrick sighs and adjusts the belt on his dark uniform pants. “Maud Smythe was in here yesterday complaining about Jeb Garret’s underwear hanging out to dry on his own clothesline, in his own yard. And Jack hits the sauce so hard that I’m surprised he doesn’t see pink elephants.” 

“Still,” Hartzy says, injecting a bit of a whine into his tone. “You’re driving past there on your way home. You could stop in.”

“And say what? ‘Hi, this is your friendly neighbourhood sheriff! Do you mind if I scope your garden for creepy noises and colorful bunnies?’”

“You could make it work,” Hartzy insists, his face falling when Patrick arches a brow at him. “Oh, Sheriff, come on, I’m the one on desk-duty this week. I really don’t want to deal with Maud when she’s back again tomorrow complaining about police inefficiency and incompetence. And,” he adds, a little sly, “Do you really want her making yet another citizen’s arrest?”

Patrick groans, defeated. Maud has more arrests under her belt than any other officer in the history of Eerie Falls.

*****

It’s not exactly on his route home from the station. Patrick has to swing left before he gets to the Gables, and navigate three miles of treacherous road before he comes upon the Mourns, impressive and steadfast in the September darkness. The pure isolation of it makes him shiver, nothing but gates and trees to shroud it.

He climbs wearily from the cruiser and half-heartedly waves his flashlight around. No rabbits, pink or otherwise, little to see but leaves and blackness. A light flickers on in one of the upstairs rooms just as he’s getting back into the car, but although the blinds move a little, the room’s occupant stays out of sight. 

Great, just what this town needs — another curtain twitcher. 

Patrick turns the engine over and pushes the car into gear. He’s tired, bone tired, and he has two very good reasons to be somewhere else right now. 

The mysterious Jonathan Toews will have to stay mysterious for at least one more night.

*****

Vinnie’s already got his coat on when Patrick comes into the house. “You don’t pay me enough for this shit,” he announces, walking past Patrick with all the poise of a broken man. There’s something yellow smeared across his cheek and he has glitter in his hair.

The door all but rattles off its frame behind him, and Patrick takes a deep breath. “Hellions,” he shouts. “Tabetha! Esmeralda!”

Esmé’s head appears first from behind the sofa, almost instantly followed by Beth’s at the other end, and finally Eugene Fitzherbert’s paws creep up over the back. It’s impressive that a dog the size of a small horse somehow manages to defy the laws of physics by squishing himself into hidey-holes designed for tiny girls.

Patrick slides his hands to his hips and looks pointedly at the chaos around the room. It’s a disaster area of clothes, shoes, books, toys, felt tip markers, and food — only some of it plastic. He’s rolled yellow crime scene tape around less disturbing scenes.

“Hi Dad,” Beth says quietly.

“Hi Dad,” Esmé echoes, even quieter.

Patrick lets his hands drop, and rolls his shoulders. “Bath. Now.”

They don’t argue, trotting up the stairs after him, and tugging at him as he fills the tub. Beth curls her tiny hand around his shoulder, while her sister pushes her face into Patrick’s back. He falls into the quiet of it, their physical closeness, and the steam that clears his head a little.

“Okay,” he says when the girls are lifted into the water. “I’m going downstairs to make a start on the bombsite. You know the drill, sing until I come back up here.”

He makes his way through the clutter while the girls warble through the soundtrack of Frozen, their voices extra shrill with the added bathroom acoustics.

“I can’t hear you,” he calls when it quietens a little.

_“DON’T KNOW IF I’M ELATED OR GASSY, BUT I’M SOMEWHERE IN THAT ZONE…”_

Patrick feeds the dog, fills the washing machine, and microwaves some pasta that Vinnie must have made earlier. It’s only penne and a jar of sauce, but his stomach rumbles anyway. Stripped down to just his undershirt and pants, he makes it back upstairs just in time to join in the chorus, his bare feet slapping in the puddles on the floor.

_“...let it go, let it go, and I’ll rise like the break of daw-aw-awn.”_

The twins squeal and dance in the wilting suds, belting out the rest of the song, and squealing some more when Patrick takes breaks from rinsing hair to squirt water in both of their faces. 

Eugene Fitzherbert howls enthusiastically from the bottom stair.

*****

When every toe has been dried and both heads have been blitzed with anti-tangle spray, the girls follow Patrick to his pasta, spoons at the ready. They’ve already eaten, but snacking from his plate is in their top five favorite things to do — in between getting henna tattoos and riding in the cruiser.

_“Yours always tastes nicer, Dad.”_

Patrick gave up arguing with that logic years ago, both with himself and his daughters. Some days it’s the only time they get to eat together.

“So,” he says. “What’s the latest from around the watercooler today?”

“Well,” Beth begins, leaning in, which means something juicy has gone down. “You know the store across the street? The one that used to sell the smelly carpets?”

Patrick nods, smiling at her chinhands.

“It’s gonna be a new store,” Esmé chimes in. “With awesome stuff like candy that brushes your teeth and princess outfits and answers to all the homework.”

“And superpowers,” Beth says.

“And jewels.”

“And glitter balls.”

Patrick watches like a spectator at a tennis match, swinging his head back and forth as the twins try to one-up each other on all the unlikely things that this store will bring into their lives.

“And tigers,” Beth says, sneaking a little pasta to Eugene Fitzherbert under the table.

“You’re not buying any tigers,” Patrick says firmly, pointing his fork at her. “They eat even more than you guys do.”

“Awwww,” the girls chorus, heads dropping a little. They go back to their chewing, duelling with their spoons for the last scraps. 

“What are you going to buy at the magic store, Dad?” Esmé asks when the plate is bare.

Patrick thumbs away the sauce she’s smeared on her forehead. “Oh, I dunno. I might buy two girls that tidy up a little and don’t terrorize their babysitters. And maybe some socks.”

Two pairs of blue eyes widen in horror. “You wouldn’t, Dad,” they screech in unison.

Patrick takes a long sip of his milk. “You’re right,” he says. “I don’t need any more socks.” 

*****

It’s Esmé’s turn to tell the story tonight, and she’s drawing it out as much as she can. Patrick is wedged between her and her sister in the double bed that the girls share.

“...and then Prince Patrick said ‘please rescue me from the terrible tower where I’ve been a prisoner for a hundred years and it’s cold and stinky and I’m all by myself.’ And do you know what happened then, Dad?” She blinks up at him, her hair brushing softly across his arm. Beth’s almost asleep, smacking her lips every now and then.

Patrick can guess. “The two beautiful, brave, strong, ninja princesses rescued the prince from the tower?”

“No,” Esmé says, entirely serious. “The tiger rescued him, because tigers are awesome, and they’re super strong, and they can even swim —”

“No. Tigers.” 

Esmé huffs. “Fine. The two beautiful, brave, strong, ninja princesses rescued the prince and made him do all the tidying up forever and ever and ever infinity.”

That sounds about right.

“So,” Patrick says, almost carefully, when he’s sure that the story is over. “Everything okay at school today?” 

Esmé burrows her head into his shoulder, shielding her face. “Yes.” Her breath leaves a damp mist on his bicep.

“Good,” he says, and lets it go. “And hey, I love you.”

When she doesn’t respond, Patrick finds that ticklish spot just under her ribs and pokes at it. “Daaaaad,” she shrieks, jolting. He has to move quickly to grab her foot before Beth gets a very rude awakening.

“I said,” Patrick chides, shaking her ankle gently. “I love you.”

“I heard you,” she giggles, because she’s not his child for nothing.

“Oh, it’s like that, is it.” He drums his fingers against her ribs again until she grabs his hand, squeezing tight. 

“No more tickles, Dad,” she wheezes. “I love you, too.”

Patrick smiles down at her flushed face and crinkled eyes. “Thought so,” he laughs, and she grins right back before settling down, her head on his shoulder.

He means to get up and make a head start on tomorrow, but he’s warm and cocooned by two fidgety hot-water bottles. He closes his eyes, just for a minute. When he opens them again, Beth’s foot is jammed under his chin and Esmé’s head is squashing his ear. 

He’s too comfortable to move.

*****

The Kanes live in the second of five terraced houses that all open onto the street. The large backyards make up for the absence of any front lawns, and Patrick’s never really missed that buffer between his home and the outside world. He likes the immediacy and efficiency of stepping out the door and onto the sidewalk. Mostly, he enjoys how quickly he gets back inside, no unruly grass or weeds to delay or distract him. 

Their street is usually so quiet that this might be the first morning he remembers external noise dragging him from sleep before the alarm. He pads down the stairs with the drone of drills in his ears, and pulls the door open.

There’s life in the old carpet store for the first time in two years - painters, glaziers and delivery guys all moving seamlessly around each other.

“Huh,” he mutters. So there is a new store. He doesn’t give it much chance of success, tigers or no. For a start, the main street is a ten minute walk from here, so it’s well out of the way of passing shoppers. But mostly, if this was a new venture by a local, then Patrick would have heard about it, and two strangers moving to Eerie Falls would be a big coincidence. 

Which means that the mysterious Jonathan Toews has moved into both the Mourns and the shop across the street. Temporarily, anyway. Eerie Falls isn’t exactly stranger friendly. Many arrive with big plans and leave with slumped shoulders and broken spirits. 

The girls are up when he goes back inside, Esmé drowning her cereal in milk, Beth eating hers almost dry. Patrick ruffles both heads and gets to ironing and packing up their school bags. It’s just any other Tuesday, and between the usual bickering about teeth brushing and making beds, the twins remind him that they have violin after school.

Patrick makes a mental note to update Vinnie, and pulls out a chair, patting the hairbrush invitingly. “I’m taking requests today, ladies.”

“French braid, please,” Beth says, climbing up.

“You’ve come to the right place, mademoiselle,” he says with a mock bow. “I am an expert in French braids.” 

Beth giggles and leans her head back.

“So,” Patrick says, running the bristles gently through her blonde curls. “Are you going anywhere nice on vacation?”

*****

Over the following week much is learned about Jonathan Toews. He’s filthy rich. He inherited his money from his wealthy family. He murdered his wife and collected on the insurance. He won the state lottery. He’s from Canada. He’s from the South. He’s from Christmas Island. He’s opening a funeral parlor. He’s opening a bakery. He used to be a clown in the circus. He used to be a pro hockey player. He’s a drug dealer. He’s a horse whisperer. He’s a whistleblower. 

He’s Bad News.

And. What. Will. Become. Of. Us. All.

“So, he’s also a Yeti,” Patrick says after Hartzy tells him about Maud’s latest sightings of eight foot shadows up at the Mourns. He jams the phone between his ear and his shoulder to lean over and correct Beth’s pencil grip, which leads to a bit of a frown-off.

“Well, he’s certainly as elusive,” Hartzy says down the line.

“Not for much longer,” Patrick says, looking towards the window. The store looks like it might be nearly finished. The dumpsters have been taken away and the glass panes are gleaming. There’s not much to be learned from the generic whitewashed front in terms of just what’s being sold, and the only paperwork Patrick’s been able to get his hands on lists ‘Miscellaneous’ in the contents section.

“I don’t even know if him showing up in person is going to make things better or worse. Either way, it’ll be interesting,” Hartzy muses.

Patrick’s not keen on interesting. _Interesting_ usually means longer hours in his uniform and more time away from his family.

“He’s nice,” Esmé says when Patrick hangs up. 

“Who?” Patrick asks, adjusting Beth’s pencil once more. 

“The guy who owns the store,” Esmé answers, not looking up from her own homework.

Patrick frowns. “How do you know?”

“I just do,” Esmé shrugs. “I like him.”

“You don’t like anyone,” Patrick teases. She really doesn’t. In the hierarchy of people that she loves is her sister, her dad and her dog. On the next level is her maternal grandmother and her extended paternal family. Then there’s Vinnie, which had been a very slow burn. And that’s where it ends. 

“I like Jonny,” she insists.

“Jonny,” Patrick repeats. “How do you know his name is Jonny?”

Esmé shrugs again. 

“You know how she just knows stuff,” Beth says easily, like that shit doesn’t scare the bejesus out of Patrick. He fucking hates when they go all _Children of the Corn_ on him.

*****

The following morning, Patrick bounds down the stairs to the twins peeking out the window over the back of the sofa, both of them looping an arm around Eugene Fitzherbert’s neck. “Girls,” he sighs. “How many times? He drools on the cushions.”

“So do you,” Esmé says, making no effort to remove the dog.

“We saw Jonny,” Beth announces.

“He waved at us,” Esmé adds.

Patrick walks to the window, but there’s no sign of anyone on the street. The lights are on in the store though, and there’s a fresh sign painted above the door in black gothic script. 

**Bell, Book, and Candle.**

That’s pretty much the final nail in the coffin. If there’s anything this town hates more than strangers, it’s New Age strangers. Patrick gives it a month before the moving truck is double parked across from his house. Two, if Jonathan Toews is stubborn.

He’s sort of hoping that Jonathan Toews is stubborn.

“He’s magic, Dad,” Esmé says.

“Doubtful,” Patrick says, his breath fogging up the glass. 

“He looks just like Prince Eric,” Beth gushes.

“If you say so,” Patrick says. He heads off to the kitchen to begin scrambling some eggs, and then wonders if they have any eggs.

“You’re too young to be this jaded,” Beth calls after him.

Patrick almost trips over his own two feet. _“What?”_

“That’s what Laura says,” Esmé says, nodding seriously.

“She’s Vinnie’s mom,” Beth explains.

“Yes, thank you,” Patrick says, side-eyeing them both. “I know who Laura is.”

_Jaded._ Jesus Christ.

*****

His first order of business at the station is the arrival of Maud Smythe, flanked by her cronies and their leader, Reverend Carlton.

Patrick takes a deep breath, and reaches for the report book. It’s too early for this shit. It’s _always_ too early for this shit. “Good morning,” he says, a little too sweetly. “How can I help you good folks today? Some kids been pilfering from the collection plates? Did Harriet skimp on the pecans in the pie she made for the church fair? Did Lev Morrison bring his donkey to Sunday Service again?”

The reverend’s long coat swishes as he approaches the counter, his back stiff with self-righteousness. “When you come into the land that the Lord your God is giving you, you shall not learn to follow the abominations of those nations. There shall not be found among you anyone who makes his son or daughter pass through fire, or one who practices witchcraft, or a soothsayer, or one who interprets omens, or a sorcerer, or one who conjures spells, or a medium, or a spiritualist, or one who calls up the dead, for all of those are an abomination to the Lord.”

Patrick looks between them all; Maud’s eyes are closed in prayer, Susie Wright’s head is nodding in passionate agreement, and Al Givens is staring a hole right through Patrick.

“Good to know,” he says mildly. “If that’s everything —”

“That, Sheriff,” Carlton says, leaning over the counter and right into Patrick’s personal space. There are curious, bulbous growths surrounding his nose that Patrick tries hard not to stare at. “That is a direct quote from Deuteronomy.”

“Well, you would know,” Patrick agrees. “You are fond of the Old Testament. Personally, I like the second part of the good book better. The one that tells you to love your neighbor.”

Susie steps closer to the reverend, her mouth twitching rabbit-like. “That store is the abomination of which the reverend speaks. It offends our Creator.”

Patrick resists the urge to roll his eyes. “It’s not bothering me, and I can’t close down a store before it even opens just because it offends your sensibilities. So, run along now and clutch your pearls elsewhere.”

“Witchcraft,” Susie hisses, her body clenched in fury. 

“Witchcraft,” Patrick echoes. “I think that’s a bit of a stretch.” He’s not much surprised that they’ve made it, though. This entire town is a replica of Salem, circa 1692, all of the residents high on suspicion and hysteria. 

“I’ve been up there, at his house,” Maud continues, her lips thinned to bloodless lines. Her gloved hands have a death grip on her purse. “He’s planting drugs in his garden. Right under our very noses.”

“Marijuana,” Al adds, nodding. “I saw a TV show about it.”

Patrick takes a breath, and then another. To think he gave up a chance to join the FBI for this nonsense. “I hardly think that our outdoor climate lends itself to the cultivation of marijuana plants,” he says. “You’re probably getting confused with rhubarb.”

Reverend Carlton’s sigh is that of the sanctimoniously disappointed. “It appears that we are wasting our efforts here,” he says with an air of martyrdom. “Very well. We shall make our feelings known in other ways.”

“You do that,” Patrick says, snappish, slamming the report book shut. 

“And might I remind you that the Sheriff’s Office is one that is governed by elections,” Carlton continues slyly.

Patrick beckons him closer with a crooked finger. “Only if I might remind you,” he whispers in Carlton’s hairy ear. “That any other sheriff might not be so gullible as to believe that those church funds were transferred into your own personal account for _security_ reasons.”

The reverend rears back, his pale, watery eyes widening a little.

“I take it that will be all,” Patrick says with a pleasant smile.

“For now,” Carlton says primly, leading his band of hellfire and brimstone out of the station. “But I’ll be seeing you at the town meeting.”

“Can’t fucking wait,” Patrick grumbles into the silence they leave behind.

*****

“Dad? Daddy, where are you? Dad? _Daaaaad_!”

“In the kitchen,” Patrick shouts, and goes back to constructing his sandwich. He smiles to himself when Barbie high heels clomp loudly across the floor tiles. 

“Oh no, Dad,” Beth whispers, eyeing the loaded counter. “Is it that time of the month?” 

Patrick winces; he’s told Vinnie to stop calling it that. “Yep,” he sighs, hoisting her up to sit alongside the packages and jars. The shoes slide from her narrow feet, clattering to the floor. “Wanna help?”

“Sure,” she says, poking at the packages. “Should we start with the cheese?”

“Go for it,” Patrick invites, accepting a slice of Swiss cheese, followed by some American cheddar. “What now?”

Beth considers, her mouth twisting. “Ham,” she says, ripping the carton open and rolling the meat before handing it over. “Five pieces. And now some pickle.” Patrick loads up the bread, piling on pastrami and more cheese in the order Beth dictates. “Some lettuce, for vitamins.”

“Very important,” Patrick agrees, even though the sandwich is pretty much a lost cause in terms of proper nutrition, especially when smothered with mayo and mustard. He slaps the second slice of bread on top and wraps the whole affair in cling wrap before stashing it in the fridge alongside two bottles of beer.

“Hug?” Beth offers when he turns around.

“Always, baby,” Patrick says, scooping her up and burying his nose into her soft and eternally wild hair — his gift to her. “You give the best hugs,” he murmurs, and her arms tighten around his neck, her tiny hands patting his shoulders. He takes another breath and feels weak with just how much he loves her. “Something came in the post this morning,” he says softly. “Something really amazing.”

Beth pulls back a little, brow furrowed.

“Something so amazing that I’ve been keeping it close to my heart all day.” He reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a postcard.

“What is it?” Beth asks.

Patrick hands it over and watches her lips move silently as she reads the cover.

“It’s a Good News Note from Ms. Alton,” she says. Patrick hates that she immediately looks to the door, like she’s checking that her sister isn’t there, listening.

“It’s a _great_ Good News Note,” Patrick corrects, keeping an arm around her shoulder while he reads the block script on the back. “ _Dear Sheriff Kane, this is just to let you know that all of us here in first grade are very proud of Beth. She is hardworking, cheerful, and always kind to the other students in this class. She also does a very good job of looking after Hoppy, the class fish, and she won this month’s handwriting competition. So, well done, Beth — keep up the great work!_ ” Patrick looks back at her. “The fish is named Hoppy?”

“We were hoping for a rabbit.”

Patrick laughs around the tightness in his throat. “Well, this is the best news I’ve had in days, weeks even. Months. Probably ever. And I am so proud of you, sweetheart.” 

“I’m proud of you, too, Dad,” she says, and it’s so genuine that Patrick has to hug her again, until he doesn’t feel like he’s about to crack wide open. 

“We have to celebrate this great good news,” he says. “We could go to the movies, or have a fancy dinner, or get a takeout and have a games night. Whatever you want.”

Beth doesn’t answer for a minute. “I want to wait. I want to wait until Esmé gets her note,” she says.

“But that could be a while. Ms. Alton only gives out two notes a month.” Esmé is probably not very high on the list of potential recipients.

“I’ll wait,” Beth says, nodding with certainty. “I know Esmé is going to get her own note, and then we can have a big, big celebration.”

“The biggest,” Patrick promises.

*****

Patrick’s time of the month is every first Tuesday when the Residents’ Committee gathers at the town hall for their meeting. Serving as Chairperson came with the Sheriff’s Office. It had all the honor of inheriting a dead uncle’s asshole cat. 

He’s the first to arrive, switching on lights and the temperamental heating system, his work boots clunky on the wooden floor. The table has already been set up and he scans the agenda while shrugging off his coat. The Store of Doom, the evils of Halloween, preparations for the Christmas pageant, Jack Rhodes being a nuisance, some dog being a nuisance, someone’s garden being a nuisance, some other nuisance being a nuisance. Basically, items seven to sixteen are nuisances. It’s going to be a long night.

At the end of the table is a substantial bundle of flyers. The reverend’s doing, Patrick supposes, as he examines one. The font is bold and chilling - _Is Your Soul For Sale?_ Patrick’s making faces at it when the door opens and a tall man walks in, a rolled up poster tucked under his arm. 

“Hi,” he says, smiling brightly as he approaches. “Who do I speak to about hanging this up?” He unravels the poster, which is endearingly homemade and reads -- _YOGALATES!!_ \-- 

“Jonathan Toews?” Patrick guesses with a small smile.

“Sheriff Kane?” Jonathan returns, his dark eyes skirting over Patrick’s uniform.

“Patrick,” Patrick offers along with his hand. Jonathan takes it, his grip firm and warm.

“Jonny.”

“It’s nice to meet you at last.”

“At last?” Jonny’s eyebrows rise. “Someone been talking about me?”

“Someone,” Patrick snorts. “Everyone. My girls especially.”

“Your girls?” 

“We live across from the store. They’re stalking you via my front window. I could help with the restraining order paperwork, if you like.”

Jonny’s whole face lights up. “The twins?” he says, smiling so wide that it has to hurt. “With the Great Dane?”

“Eugene Fitzherbert,” Patrick says, grinning back. “Or to give him his full title, Eugene Fitzherbert Flynn Rider Ferdinand Philip Li Shang Peter Pan Phoebus Hercules Taran Tarzan Kane.”

When Jonny laughs, his nose scrunches up. It’s very dorky, and Patrick decides that he likes him already. “I take it you didn’t get a say in that?” 

“I didn’t get a say in keeping him. The girls found him abandoned behind the mall one day, and...” Patrick shrugs. “They kind of have this affinity for waifs and strays.”

“Must be great kids,” Jonny says, looking like he totally means it.

And Patrick is never going to argue with that. “The best.” He glances down at the poster. “So, Yogalates?” 

“Right,” Jonny says, suddenly business-like. “It’s a fusion of yoga and pilates. Good for the mind, body, and soul. I was able to book the hall for Thursday nights.” He pauses, and then, “I’m a certified instructor, if you need to see my credentials.”

“You’re good,” Patrick laughs, quite charmed. “Although I wouldn’t let Reverend Carlton hear you talking about souls. There hasn’t been a witch burning in this town for over 400 years. We’re about due.” His eyes drop guiltily to the flyers on the table, and he winces when Jonny’s gaze follows. The store isn’t specifically named, but it’s not hard to read between the lines. “I –” he begins, but Jonny cuts across him before he can continue with his apology.

“So the back wall?” he says, like he hasn’t even noticed what is essentially a movement to boycott his livelihood. He waves the poster at Patrick. “I can hang this down there?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. There’s an advertising fee of twenty-five cents a week that Maud will hound you for if not paid promptly,” Patrick warns. “Failure to pay could adversely affect your credit rating and put your home at risk.” 

Jonny’s laughter travels with him to the back of the hall, and Patrick is still smiling when the door opens again.

“Good evening, Sheriff,” Ms. Alton says, walking briskly across the floor and plonking her knitting onto the table. “Are we the first here?”

Unfortunately, Patrick thinks. He suspects that she’s been looking for an opportunity to continue the recent, and somewhat fraught, discussion they had at the girls’ parent/teacher conference. “I haven’t changed my mind,” he says, his voice low so that it doesn’t carry down to where Jonny is picking pins from the notice board. “Esmé is not being moved into a different class.”

Ms. Alton looks a little startled by the abrupt start to the conversation. “I understand that, Sheriff,” she says, equally quietly. “I just feel Esmé would benefit from having to mix with other children that are not her sister. She’s very reliant on Beth, and she needs to start making friends –”

“She _needs_ her mother. They both do. And they need a father that doesn’t work ridiculously long hours. They need an extended family to be living closer, and they need a grandmother that’s more…stable. I can’t change any of that for them.” Patrick stops and swallows down on the bubble of guilt that’s almost permanently lodged in his throat. “But I am not going to take them away from each other. And I’m not going to let you do it either.”

Ms. Alton looks at him for a long moment before sighing. “Maybe next year.”

Maybe over Patrick’s dead body, but it seems like a good place to leave this conversation because Gerda Childs, the town librarian, has just come in.

“Sheriff,” she says with a brusque nod. “Ms. Alton. Good evening. I trust that we —” She stops dead when Jonny begins walking back across the floor. What’s curious is that Jonny’s stride falters a little, as if he’s surprised as well.

“You two know each other?” Patrick asks after a few weird seconds of everybody just standing still. There’s a telling pause before Jonny shakes his head.

“Jonathan Toews,” he says, offering Gerda his hand, and smiling when she accepts it with a formal offer of her own name. Jonny turns to Ms. Alton and introduces himself, making her blush with compliments about the scarf she’s working on. 

“Well,” he says, stepping back. “I’ll say goodnight. It was nice meeting you all. Sheriff, tell Beth and Esmé I said hi.”

Patrick watches him go and is still staring at the door when it opens one last time to let Reverend Carlton and his crew in — the ever dependable Maud; the mayor, Matty Day; and the church organist, Plato Hynes.

The gleeful spite on Carlton’s face slides when he spots Jonny’s poster, and he immediately begins blustering through some spiel about heretic propaganda. 

Patrick cuts him off coolly. “It’s an advertisement for an exercise class, not an invitation for devil worship.”

“He hasn’t paid —” Maud begins, but Patrick interrupts that, too, by pointing at the five dollar bill Jonny’s left on the table.

“I think that takes care of everything until…” He takes an exaggerated amount of time to do the math. “February of next year.”

The collective horror when they realize that Jonny might be bound to this town for that length of time by five dollars is both ridiculous and hilarious.

“And I assume that this is your work,” Patrick says, nodding at the leaflet pile.

“It is,” the reverend says, rigid with pride. “For I fear that our congregation may be led astray by those who make wicked promises to false gods —”

“Okay,” Patrick says, sitting down and scooting his chair closer to the table. “I just need to know where to send the fines if I see any littered around the town.”

Carlton’s face turns a shade of apoplectic red. “This is an outrage. I move that we immediately —”

“Reverend, there is an agenda,” Gerda says coldly, poking a pin in Carlton’s hot air. Not one to suffer fools gladly, she doesn’t suffer him at all. “First item is the Sheriff’s Report.”

Patrick gives a brief account of expenditure and some housekeeping items before finishing by announcing the permanent appointment of Deputy Ryan Hartman after a successful probationary period. He then switches off as the reverend spells out his plans to rid the town of all that’s unholy, which basically amounts to his leaflet campaign. Patrick catches Gerda looking at him at one point, and although she’s far too dignified to roll her eyes, he can still read her contempt.

It takes a further two hours to get through the list of petty nuisances, and while Patrick can’t do anything about Hilly Blessed being advised that her lawn is too flamboyant or Trudy Tucci being told to cover more of her flesh before she enters church, he draws the line at anybody shooting Chuck Lewiston’s dopey poodle if it’s caught rummaging through garbage cans again.

“I’ll arrest anybody I see brandishing a gun, for whatever reason,” he promises.

*****

Vinnie looks up sympathetically when Patrick lets himself into the house. “Should I ask?”

“I wouldn’t,” Patrick grumbles, making his way to the kitchen. He takes the sandwich from the fridge and uncaps a beer.

“I’m afraid I have more bad news for you,” Vinnie says when Patrick comes back into the living room.

“Don’t want to hear it.”

“C’mon, Sheriff, you know I need to get my thesis finished.”

Patrick reaches for the remote control. “Not listening,” he sings.

“I’m going to have to cut my hours.”

Even though he had a feeling this was coming, it doesn’t make hearing it any easier. “Vinnie, you can’t do this to me, man.”

Vinnie rolls his eyes at Patrick’s pathetic face. “Wrong,” he grunts, pushing himself up. “I can’t do it to the girls. Just, you know, maybe try to sort something else out, even for a day or two every week.”

“I’ll talk to Caroline,” Patrick promises as Vinnie puts on his coat and says goodnight. When the door closes, Patrick folds down onto the sofa, his legs curled up under him. He’s opening his mouth for a bite of his sandwich when the landing creaks under the weight of two tiny bodies.

“Oh my god,” he calls. “Did you two hear the fridge opening? You’re like bats. Bats who should be asleep.”

There’s a lengthy pause before Beth speaks. “It’s us, Dad.” There’s another beat before she clarifies, “Beth and Esmé.”

“We’re not bats,” Esmé adds. “Although bats do wake up at night-time.”

“Because they’re nocturnal, Dad,” Beth says.

“I bet they’re hungry, too,” Patrick grunts, already breaking one half of his sandwich into another two pieces. Four feet bound down the stairs and kick him in the ribs and stomach as shares are scrambled for. “If you want a beer, you’ll have to get that yourself.”

The girls giggle before stuffing their mouths, and Patrick laughs at their hamster cheeks. “So, I met Jonny,” he says conversationally, and laughs again when their eyes widen comically. “He says hi.”

It hits him then. That little niggle that he’d put aside when the reverend walked into the hall. _Tell Beth and Esmé I said hi._

Which is strange, because Patrick’s pretty sure that he didn’t mention the girls by name. 

“Did you love him?” Beth asks, big eyes blinking hopefully.

“Totally. I might just marry him and run away to Australia.”

“Yay,” Esmé cheers. “Australia! We love Australia! Where’s Australia, Dad?”

Patrick raises his eyebrows. “Who said I was taking you with me?”

_“Daaaaaaaaaad!!”_

*****

The grand opening of Jonny’s store is a week later, on an otherwise unremarkable day. Patrick’s in the rec room beating Soupy at foosball when Duncs arrives to relieve him. “You’re early,” he says, giving one last devastating flick of his wrist that sends the tiny ball bouncing into the plastic goal.

Duncs gives a lazy shrug. “So that store opened today.”

“I know,” Patrick says, shimmying his way through some victory showboating.

“You might want to take the cruiser home.”

Patrick stops dancing.

The unwelcoming committee is in full force by the time he pulls up at his house; a crowd of about twelve, looking more than they really are on the narrow sidewalk. They’re twitchy, some of them looking suspiciously at Jonny’s store, most just waiting around for something to happen.

Patrick reaches for his seldom worn hat. It feels like this might be a hat-wearing situation.

“The rest of the townsfolk gone to round up the pitchforks and torches?” he drawls, tugging the felt Stetson down to his eyebrows as he crosses the road. 

Maud Smythe steps out of the throng, chin tilted defiantly. “We’re not doing anything wrong,” she sniffs.

“You’re causing an obstruction on a public street,” Patrick says, pulling out his notebook and making the unsettled crew even shiftier. 

“It’s not Christian, Sheriff,” Maud insists.

Patrick arches his eyebrows. “And this is?” He makes for the door, the crowd parting to allow him through. “When I get back, you all had better be loitering somewhere else.”

A bell chimes when Patrick enters the shop, a quaint, quirky touch that he’d expect from a place like this. But the rest of the store is nothing like he imagined, all open spaces, bright white walls, and pale marble floor tiles. The goods are displayed in an orderly fashion on shelves or in wicker baskets on the ground. Towards the back is a large, glazed area greenhousing herbs and other exotic looking plants. The smell of whatever’s growing out there and the candles burning in here combine to create a scent that Patrick struggles to describe. Warm, maybe. Friendly. If friendly had a smell.

“Wow,” he says when Jonny smiles at him from behind the counter, his finger acting as marker in a closed book.

“Surprised?” he asks, mouth twisting a little.

“Uh-huh.” Patrick removes his hat, twisting the rim between his fingers. “I was thinking something more…clandestine.”

“Patchouli oil, incense burners, wishing stones, crystal balls, emo assistants?”

“Something like that,” Patrick agrees. “Maybe some of those shrunken skulls from South America, and you’d be wearing a necklace made of human teeth.”

“Forgot to put it on this morning,” Jonny laughs. “Got caught up in the day and completely failed with my accessorising.”

Patrick smiles back. “Weak, man,” he says. “My girls never let me leave the house unless I’m looking my very best. One time I even showed up to a crime scene still wearing clip-on earrings.”

Jonny’s head tilts playfully. “Maybe I should hire them. Are they available for professional consults?”

“Probably, but word on the street is that you’re already rocking the Prince Eric look.” Which today is certainly accurate. Jonny’s dark-wash jeans are like vines wrapped around his thighs, and the white shirt is stark against his tanned skin.

“Good to know,” Jonny says, and then claps his hands like he’s calling business to order. “So, welcome. You’re my very first customer.” He casts an eye over Patrick’s uniform. “Unless this is an official visit?”

“No,” Patrick says quickly. “Definitely a customer. I just need some…” He looks around, thinking he really doesn’t need anything from this place, but something in him burns hot when he thinks of Jonny sitting in an empty store for seven hours. On his opening day.

“Why don’t you look around and see if you can find what you… need,” Jonny suggests.

There are candles that Patrick sniffs curiously. Some he likes better than others; the winter spice makes him wrinkle his nose, but the vanilla is sweet and soothing. It kind of smells like something that he could burn while the twins are whining about homework. It would be hard to argue when wrapped in vanilla.

Vials of herbal remedies are lined up on a narrow shelf; Bach’s Rescue Remedy, some rosemary fusion, and others that promise a better night’s sleep or increased energy. Patrick doesn’t spend much time with them, and he also quickly passes by the copper bangles that offer relief for aching joints, and the amber coloured necklaces that promise to soothe baby teething woes. 

When he gets to the rear of the store, he notices a small alcove that’s a library of sorts. There are maybe twenty shelves, stocking self-help and meditation books that Patrick has little use for. It’s the children’s stories that catch his eye, some of which he already has at home, favourites like _I’ll Love You Forever_ and _We’re Going on a Bear Hunt_. Four brightly colored bean bags create a cozy seating area. They’re more child than adult sized, but if Patrick was tired enough, he’d take his chances.

“Hey,” he calls. “Those guys outside. They been giving you a hard time?” He steps back into the lobby, and Jonny looks up from his book.

“No,” he says with a shake of his head, glancing towards the tinted glass pane at the front. “The only one of them I’ve seen was some poor guy who was pretty wasted, and he just came in to use the restroom.”

Patrick sighs. “That would be Jack Rhodes. He has a bit of a problem.”

“Sad for him,” Jonny says sympathetically.

Sad for Patrick, too. Jack Rhodes keeps the Eerie Falls PD busy with his drunken escapades. “Yeah,” he mutters while walking to the greenhouse. He only recognises the parsley and the ginger bulbs among the array of plants and herbs, and he’s beginning to despair about making any purchase when he spots a collection of vegetables in muslin covered crates.

“Home grown and organic,” Jonny says, suddenly beside him. 

“Did you grow them?” Patrick jams the hat back on his head, and pokes around in the basket of still dirty potatoes. 

“No, they’re from a farm maybe sixty miles north. I want to use some of the land around the Mourns, but it’s not ready yet. Rotavators are coming in next week before the ground freezes, and the soil needs to be treated, but after that...”

Patrick looks away because Jonny and his store will probably be gone long before ‘after that’ arrives. “I haven’t thought about dinner,” he admits, eyeing his best bet. Otherwise he’s going to end up buying some stupid pity trinket.

“Well, I can help out there,” Jonny says, pointing at some laminated cards. “It’s a recipe for ciambotta, a vegetable stew. Everything you need is there.”

Patrick takes a page and studies the ingredients. Eggplant, tomatoes, chilis, peppers, onions, potatoes, celery, and garlic, all of which are available and clearly labelled in the baskets. “Thing is,” he says regretfully. “Esmé hates celery, and Beth is terrified of turnips. I usually blitz all the veggies, but they can sniff out a dupe with alarming accuracy.” He looks up at Jonny. “You know how it goes - they can’t find their shoes, but they will find that one tiny piece of onion the blender missed.”

On the other hand, his kids really need to be eating a more varied diet, one that includes chewing actual vegetables. Or even recognizing them; Beth still thinks parsnips are ‘yellow carrots’. 

Patrick fishes out his wallet and stares inside. “I’ll take twelve dollars worth.”

It looks far more when he watches Jonny box up an obscene amount of vegetables and herbs, throwing two sugar-free lollies on top. “Something to sweeten the deal,” he says. Patrick hands over the cash, and for one crazy moment considers asking Jonny to eat with them. He can’t have had a great day. “Thanks,” is all he does say, though, clutching the box, and shuffling back towards the door.

“Come back again,” Jonny says cheerfully.

“Sure,” Patrick says. It’s likely he will. 

The only protester still left is Maud. Patrick leans in close, like he’s inviting her into a confidence. “Do you know what a fleshlight is?” he mock-whispers. Maud shakes her head, and tries to peek in the box, but Patrick slings an arm over it protectively. “Me either,” he says, and gives her a lewd wink. “But I’ll tell you once I figure it out.”

She takes off down the street, knowing just enough to be utterly scandalized.

***** 

It’s a one pot stew. All he has to do is wash, peel and chop, and the stove takes care of everything else. It smells like something Bobby Flay would be proud of, and Patrick’s congratulating himself when he reaches under the sink for the blender. His mood soon sours when the blender sits still and mute, no matter how many buttons are pushed. Patrick’s swearing at it when Vinnie brings the girls back.

“Did you talk to Caroline?” Vinnie asks.

“I’m on it,” Patrick mutters absently, slapping the socket fruitlessly. Stupid thing was working fine last week. “But can you pick them up from volleyball tomorrow?”

“No. Maybe. Fine, yes. But talk to Caroline.”

“I will.”

Patrick isn’t holding out much hope for the stew now that the onions and celery are fully visible. But the girls finish every drop he puts in their bowls, mopping up the soup with chunks of bread. Beth holds up her empty bowl, all Oliver Twist, and sets upon her second helping as if she hadn’t had a first. “Yummy,” she says, sucking up a long slice of onion.

Patrick stares at her. “You’re kidding me,” he says flatly.

“You should have asked Jonny to have some with us.”

“It’s not like you left him any,” Patrick scoffs, tipping the empty pot upside down.

*****

“My blender’s broken,” he says the following evening, the door to Bell, Book, and Candle closing softly behind him. He hadn’t even meant to drop in, but the lights inside the store were illuminating its glaring emptiness. It was like trying to walk by an injured kitten.

Jonny looks up from some sort of paperwork, pulling a pen from his mouth. “I don’t have any blenders.”

“That’s the thing,” Patrick explains. “I don’t need a new one. I may never need a new blender again.”

Jonny’s face clouds and then clears. “The girls liked the ciambotta?”

“Liked it?” Patrick snorts. “They inhaled it. Esmé wanted me to make some more for breakfast.”

“Cool. I’ve got locro today. It’s Argentine casserole,” Jonny says, moving towards the rear of the store. Patrick follows him, admiring how the grey cotton of his t-shirt cinches in at Jonny’s waist. He wonders if the fabric feels as soft as it looks.

“It’s usually made with squash, but I’m recommending a little seasonal variation.” Jonny points at the pumpkins, picks one up and gives it a squeeze test. “Grab a box.”

Patrick does, and Jonny fills it until Patrick’s arms begin to sag. Ears of corn, petit-pois, tomatoes, more onions and garlic, a cayenne pepper, and six small pumpkins. There’s something rustically wholesome about how good it all smells.

“You’ll also need a little oregano,” Jonny says, chopping at a mass of it growing in a tub. “And a bay leaf.”

“I’m going to need a bigger saucepan,” Patrick says, resting the box on a shelf. “And possibly a wheelbarrow.”

“But you’ll have lots leftover for breakfast. And hey, do the girls like eggs?”

“Sure.” 

Jonny picks some from a rack, holding them up to examine for cracks, putting a couple back before deciding on his best four. “They’re free-range,” he explains. “Gathered them myself this morning. If you call in tomorrow, I’ll have a recipe for frittatas. And more eggs. Oh, and I’ve got some banana bread by the register, freshly baked. And I also have something for Eugene Fitzherbert.”

He’s off again, plucking at a plant, stuffing the leaves into a small paper bag. “It’s basil,” he says. “Always good in a tomato sauce, but also an excellent antioxidant and antiviral agent for dogs. Just sprinkle a little on his food everyday, and he’ll be set for the winter.”

“I dunno,” Patrick says. “With his ridiculous name, he already has ideas above his station. What sort of mutiny am I inviting by giving him garnish with his food?”

“A healthy mutiny,” Jonny laughs, making his way to the counter. Patrick trails after him, huffing as he lifts the box up on the surface. Jonny balances two sweet loaves on top.

“Shall we say twelve bucks?” he suggests when Patrick reaches into his pocket for his wallet.

“No,” Patrick insists. “I can’t keep on stealing from you.” He’s got a twenty and a five, and he holds both out to Jonny. 

Jonny tilts his head, considers, takes the twenty and no more.

“You’re my favourite customer,” he insists when Patrick begins to object.

“By default,” Patrick returns, reluctantly putting his wallet away. “Given that I’m your only customer.”

Jonny shrugs. “It’ll pick up.”

Patrick’s lived in Eerie Falls long enough to sincerely doubt that. “Build it and they will come?”

“Something like that,” Jonny says with a heartbreaking certainty that makes Patrick’s breath hitch a little.

“You don’t believe in that stuff, do you? All that _Secret_ shit. Send it out into universe and it’ll come back to you?”

“I take it you don’t,” Jonny throws back, amused.

“Fuck, no,” Patrick scoffs. “Um, no offence.”

Jonny laughs loudly, his cheeks appling and eyes dancing. “None taken,” he promises. “But to answer your question, I believe in thinking positively. I think how we act and feel affects the energy that surrounds us.”

Patrick eyes him suspiciously. “Energy like an... aura?”

“If you like,” Jonny says, still good-natured in the face of Patrick’s blatant scepticism. “You can tell a lot about a person by the energy they project.”

“You can’t tell anything about me then, because my energy fucked off before lunch. I’m thinking of reporting it as officially missing, presumed dead.” Patrick bangs a _ba dum tsssh_ on the box. “A little police humor for you there.”

“I like your energy,” Jonny says, ignoring the deflection. “It’s strong… kind.”

“Sexy?” Patrick asks, quirking a brow James Bond style. “Brave? Dashing? Intriguing?”

Jonny looks back at him with enough intensity to make Patrick feel a little uncomfortable. “Lonely,” he decides.

Patrick hates that he flinches at that. It’s not an insult, but it is personal. “Hah,” he scoffs. “Fat chance. I’d love to be lonely. I wish I had five minutes to myself so that I could be lonely -”

“Being alone and being lonely aren’t the same thing,” Jonny says gently, reaching across the counter and setting a hand on the box to stop Patrick lifting off with it. “But maybe that was intrusive. Sorry.”

It certainly feels like it was deliberate, Patrick thinks. “Well, I have two hungry girls, a dog in need of a walk and a very harassed babysitter at home. So, I’ll just be...” He walks backwards to the door, his groceries making it a slow journey. 

Jonny smiles at him. “Goodnight, Sheriff. Call again.”

“Probably,” Patrick agrees.

*****

He’s sitting on the sofa getting a glimpse into his future, which has somehow become his present.

“You’re six years old. How is it possibly taking you this long to get dressed?” he calls up the stairs.

“Dad,” Esmé whines. “We need to decide. _Gawd_.”

“Decide on what?”

There’s no answer, so Patrick goes back to waiting.

When the girls do finally come downstairs, he does a double-take. They’re wearing the exact same outfit, sent recently by Grandma Donna; striped sweater dresses, purple wooly tights and calf-high boots. 

“You don’t usually wear the same clothes,” Patrick says. Which remains true, even if his mom ignores that memo. Esmé’s preferences are a little eclectic, Beth’s more traditional.

“We rocked-papered-scissored for it seventeen times but we kept doing the same thing,” Esmé shrugs. “And these are our newest clothes.”

“I see. How will Jonny know who’s who?” The only people who can tell the twins apart when they’re in the same room are his family, Caroline, Ms. Alton and Vinnie. What’s not helping is that both of them are wearing their hair loose and pushed back with orange hair bands - a byproduct of Patrick once saying Saturday was a day to let your hair down that had been taken literally.

Esmé tries to roll her eyes, but ends up rolling her entire head. “Jonny will know,” she says dismissively. “Why aren’t you ready?”

Patrick’s looks down at his jeans. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” It’s probably not what he’s wearing but more that he hasn’t changed for the Big Trip Across the Street. 

“Nevermind,” Esmé says, in her best dad-is-a-hopeless-case voice. “We need to go. I just have to get my purse.”

_Purse_ Patrick mouths silently.

The excitement gives way to shyness once they’re all in the store, the girls hiding behind Patrick, twisting their faces into his back.

“Oh,” Jonny says, appearing from the greenhouse. His wide smile freezes and then slides from his face. “I thought you said you were bringing two princesses with you today.” 

Patrick mentally applauds Jonny’s acting skills; he looks and sounds gutted.

“I thought so, too,” Patrick says. “But I seem to have lost them on the way. I guess I’ll be going now -”

“Dad,” Beth whispers fiercely. “We’re here.” She peeks out then, pushing at a reluctant Esmé until she does the same.

Jonny’s eyes widen, and he strides forward regally until he’s just in front of them. “You must be the Lady Tabetha,” he says, bending down on one knee. Patrick gives him props for guessing right.

Beth blushes, and puts her small hand in Jonny’s. 

“Lady Esmeralda?”

Esmé holds her hand out timidly, and Jonny raises it. “I’m Lord Jonathan, and I am delighted to have such esteemed company in my humble establishment.”

Neither of the girls understand what that means but they’ve watched enough Disney to know that this is how real princes talk. They’re petrified with amazement.

“I’m mostly Beth and this is mostly Esmé,” Beth blurts, blushing some more. 

“And I’m mostly Jonny. You ladies have arrived just in time. I’ve just finished a fresh batch of chocolate frogs.”

The girls are comically gobsmacked. “You have chocolate frogs?” Beth says, mouth trembling a little.

Jonny stands and nods solemnly. “Uh-huh.”

“Like in Harry Potter?” Esmé whispers, awed.

“Uh-huh,” Jonny repeats, gesturing them closer. “Wanna know a secret?”

The girls nod, all big eyes and open mouths.

“I make all the chocolate frogs for Hogwarts,” Jonny whispers.

“You _do_?”

Patrick’s heart clenches tight when Esmé reaches for her sister’s hand, so wholly overwhelmed by this revelation.

“I do. Maybe your dad could make sure none of them hop off while I show you ladies around?”

“He could,” Beth says, eyes the size of dinner plates. “Dad is the sheriff. He has handcuffs and a radio and a badge and everything. He’ll stop the frogs from escaping.”

“Is that right?” Jonny asks, smirking at Patrick. “Well, in that case, let’s go exploring.”

“Don’t let anything happen to the chocolate frogs, Dad,” Esmé warns, wagging a threatening finger.

“I wouldn’t dare,” Patrick promises. He settles back, listening to snippets of conversation as Jonny guides the girls around the store.

“... and this candle is called Jasmine. Can you guess which princess this is named after… that’s right. It’s her favourite smell… those bottles aren’t very interesting but this one here makes your tongue go black if you’re a pirate… are you pirates? ...no? ...that’s good… this plant?... lily of the valley… Princess Kate of England had a bouquet of it for her wedding, and so did Princess Grace of Monaco… it can be poisonous… you didn’t watch Breaking Bad, right?...parsnips are Merida’s favourite vegetable… no, I didn’t know they were called yellow carrots… oh, you can’t be an awesome princess if you don’t eat your vegetables… scary turnips, really?”

Patrick snorts to himself, almost as charmed by Jonny as his offspring are. If his own sisters were here, they’d be gushing about the adorableness of it all.

“Did any of the frogs get away?” Beth asks, flanking one side of Jonny when they reappear.

“I bet you got them, Dad,” Esmé adds from the other side.

“There were a couple of close calls,” Patrick says, holding up his fists. “But I took care of it.”

“Yay, Dad,” the girls chorus, and Patrick swings them up onto the counter so that Jonny can deliver on his promise of frog shaped treats. 

“They look gross,” Patrick says, shaking his head when he’s offered one. “What’s in them?”

“Oats, carob, almond milk, mint, berries and honey.”

Patrick wrinkles his nose. “Sound gross, too.” But the twins are not put off at all, humming soft noises with every bite, trying to make each morsel last. Patrick laughs when they lick around their mouths, refusing to allow any taste to escape them.

“Try some, Dad,” Beth says, and Patrick’s beginning to say no, he’ll pass, when she shoves a piece between his lips. He chews quickly to get rid of it, but then - “Man, that is good.” It's chocolatey and sweet, and nothing like advertised. “How can something with carob in it taste this amazing?”

“Magic, Dad,” Esmé says. “Right, Jonny?”

Jonny winks at her. “Right, Esmé.” He leans across the counter. “So, is there anything else I can get for you today?”

Esmé purses her lips and considers. “Do you have any disco-balls?” 

Jonny holds up a finger. “You know…” he says thoughtfully, and disappears into the small store room, closing the door enough to be heard but not seen. There’s a lot of shuffling and huffing, and Jonny muttering to himself. “Now where did I ...no that’s not it… what’s in here… a rainbow… nope… fairy dust… nope… Santa’s footprints… nope… Peter Pan’s shadow… nope… ruby slippers… nope… aha!”

He comes back, dishevelled and breathless, and holding up a dusty box. “Found it,” he tells his captive audience. Patrick is just as amazed; he was sure Jonny was going to return with regrets and apologies. “I haven’t used this since I brought it to Ron and Hermione's wedding. Hope it still works.” 

It does work, dotting little lights across the ceiling and the walls that the girls gasp at while they finish chewing their frogs.

“And what about you, Beth,” Jonny asks. “What would you like?”

“Have you got any jewels?” Beth says immediately.

As it happens, he does, a great big box of ancient and tarnished looking costume jewelry that makes the girls gawp like fish. There’s a story behind each piece Jonny places on their heads or wrists. He seems very tuned into their appreciation of beautiful, brave, strong, ninja heroines.

“Can we buy it?” Beth asks. “All of it?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Jonny says, almost sadly. “It would be very hard for me to let all of this go. I think I could only give it to two very special girls.”

Esmé adjusts her bejeweled crown. “We’re two special girls,” she squeaks, like she’s solving that problem for him.

“That’s true,” Jonny says, tapping his chin. “You are.”

“And we have five dollars,” Beth adds. Her eyes are huge and hopeful, and Patrick is reminded again that he’s probably going to kill anyone who makes her cry.

“Five dollars, eh?” Jonny mutters, and he looks up to the ceiling thoughtfully, as if he’s weighing all this up. The twins wait with bated breath. “Okay then, sold to the Ladies Tabetha and Esmeralda.”

The girls’ heavy arms clang as they high-five each other in delight.

“Right,” Patrick says, calling a halt to proceedings before his children keel over with excitement. “It’s time we got going. Eugene Fitzherbert needs a walk.”

“And I need to get the rest of this shipment to Hogwarts,” Jonny says, putting an end to any protests before they start. Patrick smiles at him gratefully.

“Can we come back again?” Beth asks, and Jonny crouches down to answer her.

“Anytime you like, Beth. Anytime.”

*****

On paper, policing in Eerie Falls is a cinch. The last recorded murder was over a hundred years ago, the bank hasn’t been robbed since the first world war, there’s never been a kidnapping, and violence is pretty much contained to scuffling outside the Bloody Stream after closing time. It’s mostly petty stuff; a little fraud, traffic violations, vandalism, truancy, underage drinking, and public nuisance. 

Squabbles are what take up the bulk of Patrick’s time. So far this week he’s had to mediate between Jeff Shue and Tom Weston over a property boundary line, call out to the Hall farm with complaints about dog barking, and go looking for Dev Reid’s lamb in Cal Shevlin's flock.

That’s three nights he hasn’t been home to put his girls to bed, and tonight isn’t looking any different. Susie Wright and Nance Reid are deadlocked in a dispute over a hand mixer.

“Tell her that I only lent it to her, and I’ve been waiting almost a year to get it back,” Susie spits.

“Tell _her_ that she ‘lent’ it to me in a sealed box with a Christmas bow on it,” Nance snaps back.

“Tell _her_ that I wouldn’t give her the time of day, nevermind a Christmas gift.”

“Tell _her_ that she had no problem giving me the time of day until last Tuesday when I said that her front curtains were looking a little shabby.”

“Tell _her_ that my front curtains…”

Patrick sighs into his hands. He could walk away, tell them to sort this out themselves. But that’s never worked out in the past. On one memorable occasion, he’d refused to get involved in an argument involving a tree that was overgrowing into the neighbour’s garden.

“I’m sure you can work this out between yourselves,” he’d said. “You’re both reasonable men.”

He’d been naive back then, green and wet behind the ears.

Five minutes after Patrick left, Jimmy Mac got to chopping down the entire tree, and Josh Lambert had retaliated by digging up all of Jimmy’s plants. 

By the morning, two of Jimmy’s windows had been smashed, there was a fire smouldering on Josh’s lawn, and it had taken three deputies to stop the duel Jimmy and Josh were having with garden rakes.

“This town is full of hateful, bitter people,” Patrick tells Vinnie when he gets home, having convinced Susie and Nance to temporarily operate a weekly timeshare for the mixer. “The girls still awake?”

“They’re brushing their teeth,” Vinnie says before stuffing his mouth with something that looks disgusting but smells like heaven.

“Hellions,” Patrick calls up the stairs.

“Dad,” Beth shouts. “You’re home.”

“Yay,” Esmé screams.

“We’re brushing our teeth.”

“And there’s toothpaste on the mirror.”

“It got there because we’re brushing our teeth.”

“Cool,” Patrick says, shrugging his jacket off. “I’ll be up in five minutes for some minty-fresh kisses.”

“And Jonny left lasagne,” Esmé shouts.

Patrick walks quickly back into the kitchen. “What’s this about lasagne?” 

“It’s good,” Vinnie muffles, nodding happily.

“Where did it come from?”

“We found it on the doorstep when we got back from walking Eugene Fitzherbert.”

Patrick stares at him. “You gave my kids food that you found on the doorstep?” 

“Relax,” Vinnie says, pointing to the counter. “There was a note.”

Patrick picks up a yellow post-it covered with a messy scrawl. _Eggplant lasagne. Enjoy! (I had time on my hands :)) Jonny._

“Here,” Vinnie is saying. “Have some. It’s fucking delicious.”

Patrick reaches for the plate being shoved at him, and sits down wearily in the chair. Vinnie’s right; it’s the best thing Patrick’s eaten in days.

“Like,” Vinnie says, “I’m pretty sure this is made with non-dairy cheese, which is the worst. And I don’t even know what these little black things are. How on earth does it all taste so good?”

“Magic, apparently,” Patrick says around his stuffed mouth. 

*****

He’s wedged between the girls on the bed, Beth telling the tale of his current plight. “Prince Patrick was trapped in the dungeon, and the mean dragon wouldn’t let him out and she turned everyone who tried to rescue him into toast. She turned their heads into toast, and their feet into toast, and their guts into toast.”

“Gruesome,” Patrick says. Almost admirably so.

“And one day she was going to turn Prince Patrick into toast —”

“Why?” Patrick asks, indignant for his alter-ego.

“Because he interrupted a lot,” Beth says darkly.

“Oh.”

“So, she opened her mouth, and Prince Patrick could see the flame that lived in her throat, all red and mad, and it was coming closer, and it was nearly on his guts when the dungeon door burst open and Prince Patrick was saved.”

“Phew,” Patrick breathes. “That was scary for a moment. Thank goodness for those beautiful, brave, strong, ninja princesses.”

“It wasn’t them,” Esmé chimes in, breaking the rule of never hijacking another story, but Beth doesn’t object. “It was someone else.”

“Was it,” Patrick wonders, pausing for effect, “by any chance, a tiger?”

The girls shake their heads. “It was Lord Jonathan,” Beth says.

“It was?” Patrick says, a little thrown.

“Yep, and he slayed the dragon, and everyone lived happily ever after.”

“I see.”

“Isn’t that a nice story, Dad?” Esmé asks.

“Sure is, kiddo,” Patrick says, smiling. He feels like a traitor, and he’d never tell the girls this, but he doesn’t do happy ever after. It’s enough to be content with what he has right now.

*****

He runs into Jonny at the mini-mart on Friday afternoon, and it’s a little weird for a minute - seeing him outside of his store, holding a basket of groceries.

“Why do I feel like I’m cheating on you?” Patrick says. “Although maybe I’ve caught you cheating. You can’t grow your own toothpaste?”

“You can actually,” Jonny says seriously. “Well, you can make it, with baking soda, sea salt, and some peppermint oil. But.” He shrugs down at his basket, his smile almost sheepish. “It’s Friday. You’re allowed to be lazy on Friday.”

“Weak, man,” Patrick says, grinning. But he has little argument with that philosophy, making his way through aisles, picking up ready-made pancake mix, a frozen garlic ciabatta and other bits to see them through the weekend. He’s tugging his uncooperative cart towards the checkout when he stops. Fifteen minutes ago, Jonny was the second person in a line of four. Now he’s the only one left, and Nance Reid still hasn’t beckoned him forward. She isn’t even pretending to be preoccupied by anything, and Patrick feels a little sickened by her blatant rudeness.

“Sheriff,” she says, gesturing for Patrick to approach the till.

“I think Jonny is next,” Patrick says through gritted teeth. “Didn’t you see him there? All six feet plus of him?”

Nance drags reluctant eyes towards Jonny. “Next,” she snaps, and proceeds to make her way slowly through Jonny’s basket, announcing every item and leaving him to bag up his own groceries.

Patrick steps up to help. “So, hey,” he says, his voice weirdly loud. “Thanks for the lasagne. I’ve been meaning to bring the dish back to you, but the girls wouldn't let me do it without them. We’ll drop by tomorrow. There’s something they’re dying to ask you anyway.”

Nance’s eyes narrow sharply and Patrick can hear the spiteful thoughts rattle around her vacuous mind. 

“It would be great to see them again,” Jonny says, smiling widely even when Nance slaps his change on the counter, as if pressing it into his hand might result in her catching something. Jonny doesn’t react other than to pick it up and drop it into a nearby charity box.

“Thank you,” he says warmly. “Have a nice day.”

It’s the way that Nance harrumphs that just sits hard on Patrick’s last nerve. “Are you doing anything tonight?” he asks as Jonny lifts his bags.

“No?” Jonny says, brows raised.

“Want to go for a drink? The Bloody Stream isn’t fancy, and the natives aren’t exactly friendly, but the beer is tolerable.”

“Okay,” Jonny says, surprised but pleased. “See you at…?”

“Nine?” Patrick suggests, and smiles saccharine sweet at Nance as he begins unloading his cart. “The girls should be down for the night by then.” 

“Perfect,” Jonny says, beaming. The goodbye that he gives Nance is painfully earnest. And completely ignored.

“It’s not my business, Sheriff,” she says as soon the door closes again. “But you should keep your girls away from that store.”

Patrick takes a deep breath and holds it for a few seconds. “You’re right.” He waits for her to nod before adding, “It’s not your business. And I’ll thank you to keep it that way.”

Nance stiffens, her eyes narrowing to angry slits. “Their mother —” She stops, too late, and Patrick watches as she wilts under the fury of his glare, his jaw tightening from the effort of not saying anything, for not telling her what a vicious, mean-spirited, nasty, _hateful_ — 

“I… ” she begins and then claps her mouth shut. She swallows loudly, once, then twice, her head dropping as she begins packing the groceries. Patrick stares at her unwaveringly, almost choking with anger, breathing slowly in and out as Nance bags up.

“You know what, Nance,” he says evenly when she’s finished. “I think I’ve left my wallet at the station.”

Her eyes drop to the telltale bulk in his pocket. “Um, that’s okay, Sheriff, you can drop in later, I guess?”

“Wouldn’t dream of such an imposition,” Patrick says coldly, already backing out of the store. “I’d help you put all this stuff back, but...”

He really doesn’t fucking want to.

When he gets home, there’s a casserole covered with a dishcloth on the step. “Freaky,” he mutters to himself, but he’s empty handed and not in much of a position to question this stroke of good fortune.

*****

“So,” he huffs, after dinner has been scarfed. “You guys mind if I go out tonight?”

“Dad, twirl,” Esmé demands as Taylor Swift belts out from the iPad. She hops in circles, shaking her already wild hair into something Patrick’s dreading having to brush tomorrow.

“Where?” Beth asks, smoothing out her tutu as she starts to prance around the room. Patrick follows her, trying to appear gazelle-like.

“Just for a beer with Jonny.”

“Like a date?” Beth pants, hands in the air as she bounces up and down. 

“No,” Patrick says quickly, still dancing. 

Four is the number of dates that Patrick has been on since Mel. And four is the number of sudden stomach bugs that ended those dates. So much vomit; he has no idea how the girls pulled it off. It just hadn’t been worth it — not the disappointed look on his date’s face, not the compensation he had to pay to the babysitter, not the loads and loads of laundry, not the sleeping on towels when they ran out of sheets, not the distress of his kids. “Not a date, so there’s no need for anybody to get sick, or anything. I’ll only be gone for a few hours.”

Esmé starts doing something a little strange with her hips. Patrick tries to make his go likewise. “Why do people say mean things about Jonny, Dad?” she asks.

“Darren Walden said that his dad said that Jonny drinks baby blood,” Beth adds.

“Isn’t Darren Walden the kid that got his foot jammed in the school toilet?” Patrick says. “Twice?”

Beth nods before turning around and twerking. _Jesus_. “And one time he sneezed puke everywhere, and then he wiped it off an apple and then he ate the apple, and Dad, it wasn’t even his apple.”

Patrick shakes his own butt. “Well then.” 

“He’s really dumb, Dad,” Esmé adds, waving imaginary pom-poms in front of her.

Patrick feels himself deflate a little. “You didn’t pull his hair, did you?” They’re currently at twelve school days Without Incident.

“No,” she says, moonwalking across the room before adding, “It’s too short.”

The song ends, Patrick bent in half, hands on his knees and struggling for breath. 

“Ready for _Despacito_?” Beth asks, already keying it into the iPad.

Patrick’s ready for a nice lie down. “Bring it,” he huffs. 

*****

Jonny’s already at the Bloody Stream when Patrick arrives, sitting in a booth, and seemingly unaware of the curious and hostile glances being thrown at him. “Hey,” he says warmly when Patrick throws his coat down next to him.

“Hi,” Patrick says, lips quirking. “Thanks for dinner. Drinks on me.”

“I’ll have a bottle of Dom Perignon then,” Jonny says, and Patrick laughs.

“Bless your heart for thinking such a thing exists around here. Will a beer do?”

“Perfectly.”

All eyes shift to Patrick as he crosses the sticky floor to the counter. “Remember to bring your wallet, Sheriff?” Garth Walden drawls, slinging a dirty dish-rag over his shoulder.

Patrick’s not even a little bit surprised that word has travelled so quickly. Nance has doubtless been on the phone since Patrick left the store. The dogs on the street are probably barking about it.

“I’ll have a beer,” Patrick says around a sarcastic smile. “And Jonny will have a tumbler of your finest baby blood.”

Garth’s lazy demeanour immediately becomes sharper, his nose twitching like he needs to sneeze.

“All out?” Patrick asks, slapping a bill onto the counter. “Well, we’ll take two beers then. You’ll bring them to the table, yeah? Also, cut him off.” He jerks a thumb at Jack Rhodes who is leaning precariously on the bar, one unsteady elbow supporting him.

“Jesus,” he says, flopping down beside Jonny and fishing his phone from his jacket. “Sorry about...everyone.”

“It’s fine,” Jonny says, looking around at the lounge. Most of the patrons are in sullen pairs or volatile threes, all of them hunched and sour. Conversation is nothing but hums and snarls. “They’re okay.”

“This is the Hallmark version of the town that kindness forgot,” Patrick snorts. “They’re not okay. They’re _mean_. Mean and bitter and petty and spiteful.” He doesn’t lower his voice as Garth comes closer to drop two bottles onto the table, leaving again without even acknowledging Jonny’s thanks. 

“Not all of them, surely.”

“No,” Patrick concedes. “But enough of them to suck the life out of this place. I can only imagine what sort of energy readings you’re getting in here.”

“Sad, mostly,” Jonny says, because he chooses to either misunderstand Patrick’s mockery or ignore it. “There’s a lot of hurt in this room.” 

“God,” Patrick groans. “You’re just a great big hippie, aren’t you. I can see you up there in your mansion, meditating with your vegetables, gathering wool from your angora goats, and I dunno, riding around on your vegan bicycle.”

“Angora wool comes from rabbits,” Jonny says. Worryingly, he doesn’t correct Patrick about anything else he’s just said.

Patrick takes a long pull from his beer and sinks further into the chair. “Is that Canadia I hear in your vowels?” 

Jonny is fiercely proud in his yes, and he’s happy to talk about his family who are all disappointingly normal. He regretfully tells Patrick that no, his mom isn’t a doula. “She works for the credit union. My dad’s an electrician.” Just the one younger sibling, David, who’s an accountant and absolutely not a life coach for dolphins. He’s less candid about himself, open enough about his idyllic childhood spent playing every known sport and essentially being allergic to indoors, but more vague about life post-Canada. Spent a bit of time in North Dakota, and then moved south, Louisiana mostly, studying, and Jesus, _no_ , not the dark arts. A little holistic medicine, plants, herbs, oils, that kind of thing. Some healing stuff, also.

“Like that Reiki shi… business?” Patrick says, holding up two fingers to Garth.

“You know Reiki?”

“Is that the one with needles?”

“That’s acupuncture.”

“Really? I thought that one was feet?”

“Reflexology.”

“Seven bucks,” Garth says, like he’s announcing a plague. He slams two more bottles onto the table, and shows no interest in taking the empties away. He does, however, look interested in policing the fun Jonny and Patrick seem to be having, and probably would, if Patrick wasn’t the actual police. 

Jonny insists on paying, taking out a ten and telling Garth to keep the change. Garth shows his appreciation by taking the bill with a pained grunt.

“And there’s a living to be earned in all your hippie… stuff?” Patrick asks. He already knows that money isn’t an issue, having done enough sleuthing to discover that Jonny owns the store and the Mourns outright. Which is a hell of a commitment. And probably one Jonny will regret soon.

“I do okay,” Jonny says,shrugging. “Everything good?”

Patrick looks away from checking his phone again and winces guiltily. “Sorry. I know it’s rude, but I’m always afraid that I won’t hear it.”

“It’s fine,” Jonny says. 

“It’s really isn’t.”

Jonny smiles and raises his bottle. “Bothers some people, eh?” he says, wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb.

“Dates, you know,” Patrick says, squirming a little. “It makes quite the statement when you put the phone down in the middle of the table beside the dinner candle. Like you can’t even make that person your priority for the next couple of hours.” He shrugs awkwardly. “Not that it really mattered. The girls hated it, and I probably wasn’t wowing anyone with my dazzling conversation about light-up sneakers and Henry Danger.”

“And the girls’ mom? Can I ask about her?”

“She died,” Patrick says bluntly, because he’s never found a better way of saying it. “Went out to pick up some diapers and got into an argument with a delivery truck. The delivery truck won.” 

“I’m sorry,” Jonny says genuinely. There’s nothing shifty about the way he says it. His eyes aren’t flitting over Patrick’s shoulder and he isn’t inching away in discomfort, like loss might be contagious. “I can’t even imagine.”

“You probably shouldn’t try,” Patrick advises. He’d sludged through the following eighteen months, not even knowing how he was going to feel on any given day. Sick for his girls when they looked around for someone that wasn’t there anymore, their little faces twisted with confusion. Sorry for himself when he paced the floor with at least one screaming baby at four a.m.. Exhausted when he got home from the station, his real day’s work waiting for him. Devastated for Mel, for missing out on smiles and first steps. Angry for himself because he’d only started to get to really know her. Cheated for both of them just settling into this shotgun marriage. “We met when Mel came to a bachelorette party in Buffalo, which is where I’m from. I followed her back here and we were married six months later.”

“Whirlwind romance?” 

“Whirlwind pregnancy. The girls were born four months after the wedding. It was the longest running scandal around here until you arrived to take the heat off me.” 

“Glad to be of service,” Jonny laughs. “You didn’t think about going back to Buffalo with the girls?“

“Many times,” Patrick admits. “But my family would have taken over, and I was enough of a mess to let them. It just felt like if I was to step up and be a proper dad, I’d have to do it here. And I didn’t really want to take them away from Caroline. That’s Mel’s mom, and Mel was an only child. They used to run a huge florist shop here in town.”

“There’s a florist here?”

“Not anymore,” Patrick says, shaking his head and pushing himself up. “Another beer?”

“If you have time.”

Patrick glances down at his silent phone. “Looks like I do.”

He has to go the restroom on the way, and is walking back when he sees Jack Rhodes take one of his many tumbles from the high bar stool, his shoe snagging around the footrest. There’s a smaller stool just where his head is going to land and Patrick has a horrible _Million Dollar Baby_ scene flashing through his mind. He opens his mouth to shout and snaps it closed when the stool moves and Jack hits the floor unharmed. Garth is on him before he gets too comfortable, hauling him back up by the collar and dragging to him towards the door.

Jonny looks puzzled when Patrick arrives back at their booth. “Drinks?” he says when Patrick blinks at him.

“Oh yeah, sorry. Had to piss.” He squints back at the bar. “How many have we had?”

“Two,” Jonny says, nodding at the four empty bottles on the table. “Why?”

“Did you see Jack fall?”

“Yeah, think he’s okay, though.” 

“He is,” Patrick says, watching as Garth returns, picking up the toppled stool and pushing it neatly against the counter. “But that was weird.”

“Falling?” Jonny asks. “Not really. He’s wasted.”

“Not the fall,” Patrick says impatiently. He turns to look at Jonny. “The stool. The one Jack should have hit his head off. I could have sworn I saw it move. As in, just move by itself.” He shakes his head. “I must be more tired than I thought.”

“If you’re too tired, we can call it a —”

“No,” Patrick interrupts. He really doesn’t want to leave yet. 

“Then get to the bar,” Jonny suggests. “Unless the drinks move by themselves, too. And hurry up, I want to hear all about Henry Danger.”

“Man, have you come to the right guy,” Patrick laughs, heading back to Garth.

*****

The house is in darkness, which means that Caroline is in the girls’ room, where she’s probably been all night. Patrick snaps on the light, and quietly calls out that he’s home. He’s kicking off his sneakers when she appears at the top of the stairs. “Hey,” he says. “Everything good?”

Caroline comes down and reaches for her shawl, wrapping it around her tiny, hunched shoulders. “Fine,” she says without looking at him, flicking at the long strands of her coarse, grey hair that fall most of the way down her back. She looks like a fairytale witch who has fallen on hard times, her clothes shapeless and black, like she dresses only in grief now. Once upon a Mel ago, she never left her house without looking immaculate; now she just never leaves her house unless tempted out with some one-on-one time with the twins. It’s hard to remember a time when her laughter was so loud that it was practically raucous. Back then, before life played its cruellest card, before they buried the best part of her with her child. 

“The girls have a recital in a couple of weeks,” Patrick says, even though it’s a waste of his breath. “I mean, they’re pretty terrible, practically tone deaf, but they’ve been working really hard and they’d be so stoked to see you -”

“I’d be happy to take the girls anytime you can’t,” she says, eyes cast on the floor.

Patrick sighs. “Or maybe you’d like to come to dinner next week. Beth’s taken this interest in cooking -”

“Anytime at all. Just let me know when you’re working, or…going out to enjoy yourself.”

Slam dunk for her. Patrick resists the urge to deny any enjoyment, remembering Jonny’s dumb laughing at Patrick’s dumb jokes. “You’re welcome here whenever,” he says.

“If the girls need me, let me know,” she tells the front door before opening it.

It’s like they’re having two entirely separate conversations. “You’re their grandmother, they’ll always need you.”

She doesn’t answer, doesn’t return his wave just before she drives away. It’s like she’s forgotten he’s there – just like she seems to have forgotten his name and the fact that they used to be friends. She’s something else that they all lost when Mel died. 

*****

The door to the Bell, Book, and Candle opens before they reach it, and Patrick has to tug on the twins’ hands to stop them and allow Gerda Childs to step outside.

“Good morning,” she says formally, already on her way down the street before anyone answers her.

Jonny’s at the counter, flicking through a couple of impressively large and leather-bound books.

“New customer?” Patrick asks, brows arched. “Are we breaking out the champagne and ticker-tape?”

“Kind of the other way around,” Jonny answers, smiling down at the girls while tucking the books away on a shelf. “Gerda’s the librarian.”

“We know,” Beth says. “But we have to go all the way to the library. Why does she bring the books to you?”

“Well,” Jonny says, leaning over the counter. “Sometimes Gerda brings books to people who can’t get to the library. People who are sick, people who work very long hours.” His voice drops to a whisper, “People who have to stop the chocolate frogs from hopping away.”

“Aaaah,” the girls say, copying Jonny when he taps his nose.

Patrick rolls his eyes as he sets Jonny’s cleaned casserole dish down carefully. Dude has an answer for everything. It’s going to be fun watching him squirm out of what’s coming.

“So,” Beth says, dispensing of the pleasantries and getting right to the point. “We have twenty-two dollars, and that’s a lot of money.”

“It certainly is,” Patrick blurts. “Where did you get twenty-two dollars from?”

Beth frowns at him. “We put our money together. Ten dollars pocket-money from you, ten dollars that Grandma Caro gave us last night, and Vinnie gave us a dollar each if we promised not to tell you that he said lots of swears when he fell over Eugene Fitzherbert.” She nods at her sister, who solemnly takes a bundle of notes from her purse and presents them to Jonny.

“This is all our money,” Beth continues. “And we’d like to buy a tiger, please. Dad says he’s cool with it.”

“I’m totally cool with it,” Patrick agrees. He’s been cool with it since the girls let him into their buying a tiger plan at breakfast.

Jonny smiles back at him. “A tiger, eh?” he says. He straightens and catches a stool with his ankle, dragging it to sit facing the girls. “I do happen to have a tiger, but she’s not for sale. She lives in my house, just like Eugene Fitzherbert lives at your house.”

“Oh,” Beth says, torn between disappointment and understanding.

“When can we see her?” Esmé asks, stuffing the bills back into her purse.

“How about now?” Jonny says, and goes into the back room, leaving Patrick gawping after him. There had better not be an actual tiger out there. 

One the other hand, the girls are vibrating with excitement, so there had better be an actual tiger out there.

It isn’t a tiger — it’s a tiny, orange tabby kitten that wiggles up Jonny’s arm when he takes her from the box. 

“She’s amazing,” Esmé squeaks, holding out grabby hands and making a strangled noise of delight when Jonny settles the kitten into them. 

“Best tiger ever,” Beth whispers. Her fingers are so gentle as they rub down the not-a-tiger’s fur. 

“You like her?” Jonny asks.

“We _love_ her,” Beth says, as if that’s the most stupid question she’s ever heard. “Are you going to bring her to the store everyday?”

“I’m thinking about it,” Jonny says, nodding his head seriously. “I’m going to put a note up in the window to see if I can find two special helpers who can come in after school and play with her for a while so she doesn’t get bored.”

The high pitched fallout from that can probably only be heard by dogs. “We’re two special helpers,” Esmé reminds him once she’s collected herself.

“Well, how about that,” Jonny says slowly, and Patrick groans loud enough for the girls to remember that he’s there.

“What do you think, Dad?” Beth asks.

“I think,” Patrick says dryly, “that Jonny could say snow is salt and sell it to the North Pole.”

“We don’t know what that means,” Beth huffs.

“It means,” Jonny says diplomatically, guiding the girls over to the library where they can sit in the beanbags and allow the kitten to crawl all over them. “That you guys might like to read Belladonna a story. _The Tiger Who Came To Tea_ is her favorite.”

“That’s our favorite, too,” Beth gasps.

Patrick has given up even pretending to be surprised by all these coincidences. “That’s not at all what I meant,” he complains when Jonny comes back.

“You’re welcome,” Jonny says, smiling like he’s been complimented.

“Oh fuck off,” Patrick says, quiet and bemused. 

Jonny’s smile grows even bigger. “Coffee?” 

*****

Patrick is on call, as he is every Halloween night, but he’s managed to talk Duncs into promising not to phone him until after trick-or-treating.

Esmé is first down the stairs, Eugene Fitzherbert trailing her. “Well, hello there, Tinkerbell, and um…” He stares down at Eugene Fitzherbert’s burgundy and yellow scarf, and lensless glasses. “Harry Potter.”

Esmé shoots him a disappointed look, taking in his clothes that are more uniform than costume. “Well, hello there, _Sheriff_ Dad,” she says sourly.

“Hey,” Patrick protests. “I might not have to go in at all, but if I do, you guys can ride along in the cruiser.”

Esmé humphs, unimpressed. “That means we’ll miss Jonny’s party. Did you forget that Jonny is having a party in his store?”

Patrick hasn’t been allowed to forget, although he has a sinking feeling that he and the girls might be the only invited guests who actually show up. “We can still go to the party,” he insists. For some of it, anyway. It’s been the talk of the dinner table all week, in between updates on Belladonna. “ _She likes it when we squeeze her… She keeps getting so big when we’re not looking… Vinnie says she’s the most awesome tiger he’s ever seen._ ”

“Ready,” Beth announces, galloping down the stairs in a purple wig and dress.

“Weren’t you going as Elsa?” Patrick squints at the costume, but nothing is ringing a bell.

“Changed my mind,” Beth says easily. “Aunt Jacqui got this for me.”

“Right,” Patrick says, desperately racking his brain. “And, so, you’re…”

“This,” Beth says, gesturing at herself unhelpfully.

“Of course,” Patrick says. “You look very…” Purple. She definitely looks purple. He’s thinking about sending a quick text to his sister for help, but he’s busted before he even gets his phone out of his pocket.

“You don’t know who I am, do you?” Beth says, hands on hips.

“Pfft, I most certainly do. You’re…”

“Princess Bubblegum.” The hips are swinging dangerously now. “From Adventure Time.”

“I know that,” Patrick lies, ducking his eyes and grabbing his keys. Halloween was a whole lot less complicated when he was a kid. “Let’s go.”

The girls skip towards the door, grabbing their pumpkin pails on the way. “You’re on watch, Dad, right?” Esmé says, holding hers up. “In case anyone tries to sneak some fruit in there.”

“Just let them try,” Patrick says darkly, jiggling the handcuffs at his waist.

Their street is busy enough. Patrick hands out bags of candy to passing monsters, superheroes, princesses, witches, and a lone bumble-bee. Despite the traffic, only about eight houses are participating in the festivities, and Patrick really wants to pound on Jeb Garrison’s door until the curmudgeonly old bastard answers. And he would, if he wasn’t pretty certain that the sweetest things in Jeb’s cupboards are pickled prunes.

The girls are so eager to get to the party that they don’t make it beyond their own street. Patrick doesn’t argue; Esmé’s fingers are starting to look a little blue despite the long-sleeved sweater she’s wearing under her dress, and Beth’s wig keeps slipping into her eyes.

Jonny’s also dressed to impress, swishing across the store in a long, black robe, fastened below his neck with a shiny grey stone. 

“Hematite?” Esmé asks, when he crouches down beside her. “Is it real?”

His cloak looks kind of real, heavy and lined, and there’s detailed brocade stitching surrounding the hems. It’s not like anything Patrick’s ever seen in a party shop.

“What do you think?” Jonny says, lifting her hand to cover the stone.

Esmé’s smile is instant and huge. “It’s real,” she says.

“Clever Tinkerbell! And Princess Bonnibel,” he says, swerving to face Beth, who’s trying to shake the windswept and interesting from her wig. “You look very pretty tonight.”

“Actually, Jonny,” Patrick says. “That’s Princess Bubblegum.”

Beth and Jonny grin at each other. “ _Actually_ , Dad,” Beth sniffs. “Princess Bubblegum’s real name is Princess Bonnibel.”

Of course it is. 

He pulls a face at Jonny, who laughs back and introduces himself to Eugene Fitzherbert, formally shaking the dog’s paw. Eugene Fitzherbert, hussy that he is, rolls over onto his back for a belly rub, legs trembling in the air when Jonny obliges and coos at him. “Who’s a handsome guy, eh?”

The girls are very excited about the dog meeting the tiger, but Belladonna is sleeping out in the back room. “There’ll be a lot of people in here later and it might get too loud for her little ears,” Jonny explains. “We’ll see her after, but first let’s get some witches’ brew. I made it extra gross for Halloween.”

“Did you put bugs in it?” Esmé asks. 

“And eyeballs?” Beth chirps.

“Yep,” Jonny promises. “I even sneezed in it, and everything.”

Patrick’s chest tightens when he looks around at all the effort Jonny has made with the store. There are candles burning behind the counter, safely out of reach, giving off warm scents of spiced oranges and berries. Cartoon type cut-outs of ghouls and goblins hang from the ceiling, and there are bobbing basins on small tables between stashes of candy and treats. Jonny’s stirring a ladle through a cauldron of soda, a giant stack of paper cups wobbling beside it, even though they’re only going to need four.

Patrick vows to let the girls drink the stuff until they get sick. He’ll help out if needed.

The door flies open just as the girls are taking their first sips. A small kid in a black hoodie with a wolf mask and claw gloves jumps up and down. “Baby blood, baby blood, baby blood,” he chants gleefully.

Esmé is on her feet in seconds. “You shut up, Darren Walden. You….you just shut up.” Patrick should say something about her language but he’s not going to do it in front of this snotty kid who’s actually checking to see if his mask is still on. 

“How did you know it was me?” Darren wonders.

“Because you’re a meanie,” Beth says, flanking her sister. “And this isn’t baby blood. It’s witches brew, so there.” She lifts the cup to her nose and sniffs, rising up to her tiptoes as she inhales. “Mm mm mm mm. _Mmmmmmm_.”

Darren Walden scampers out again, and the girls clink their cups together proudly. He’s back seconds later, dragging his mom behind him like she’s a stubborn dog on a leash. “I want some witches brew,” he demands.

You want some manners, Patrick thinks.

“Sure,” Jonny says, smiling genially. “Although there are some rules.”

Darren pushes his mask up and scrunches his spiteful face. “What rules?” he asks sullenly.

“Well,” Jonny says, still cheerful and pleasant. “You have to earn it by bobbing for an apple.”

“Try not to be sick on it,” Esmé mutters, and Patrick has to hide his snort up his sleeve.

He’s left making some awkward _how ‘bout them Yankees_ conversation with Mrs. Walden, a sour looking woman who keeps looking at the door like she desperately wants to get out. But it only opens to allow more people in, reluctant and curious parents trailing kids who have all heard about the witches brew. Patrick watches the cup stack decrease as Jonny serves up, taking the time to speak to every adult and child, even though he gets little more than mumbles in response. 

The kids gather together near the books, inspecting each other’s hauls, while the parents wander around the shop, poking distastefully at Jonny’s wares, sniggering in a way that makes Patrick set his teeth. 

He excuses himself from a weird conversation with Maisie Armitage about legal poisons to take a call from Duncs, a _get here now_ summons.

“Where’s Jonny?” he asks when he turns around again.

Maisie nods towards the door, and Patrick finds him outside, lifting Maud Smythe’s arm as he inspects a cut on her hand. Beth is standing beside them, holding Maud’s purse and glove.

“Maud cut her hand on the window box,” Beth narrates, nodding to the flower boxes on the shop’s sill. “She said she was looking at the primroses when it happened.” 

“Those window boxes are dangerous,” Maud says. She looks around shiftily, embarrassed to have been caught skulking where she’d sooner be caught dead.

“Not to people who keep their hands to themselves,” Patrick says mildly.

“It’s not too bad,” Jonny is saying quietly, and Patrick finds himself wincing not at the superficial cut, but at the swollen and misshapen joints that Maud always keeps hidden under her gloves. 

The door chimes when Esmé comes out, a small jar in her hand. “Is this the one?” she asks. 

Jonny smells it, and winks at her. “Good job,” he says, dipping his finger in and carefully spreading an ointment over the cut. He rubs it over Maud’s thumb and forefinger, gently pressing into the joints, into the gnarls that were once knuckles.

“Good as new,” he says, holding his palms up. 

Maud examines her hand for any further damage. “I’ll thank you to not leave sharp objects where people can harm themselves in future,” she says frostily, grabbing her purse and glove back, and stomping off down the street.

“Jesus,” Patrick mumbles. “How’s that for gratitude.”

“She is very rude,” Esmé agrees.

“True story, kiddo,” Patrick says, pushing the door open. “We have to go now. Get your things.”

“Aw, Dad,” Beth whines. “Five more minutes?”

“No can do, Princess Bubblegum,” he says, stepping into the store behind the girls. “Let’s roll.”

“But we want to stay,” Esmé shouts, face dark with dismay. “We haven’t even done the witch piñata yet. And that’s going to be the best bit.”

Patrick winces when that silences the room, all eyes honing hungrily in on his domestic. 

“We can stay with Jonny,” Beth says. Her wig is freshly askew in distress.

Patrick feels itchy under the weight of his audience. No-one even pretends they aren’t watching, little mean smirks curling on their lips. Jonny looks a little uncertain, and suddenly that’s really what Patrick cares about.

“Would you mind?” he asks, fully enjoying the collective eyebrow raising. “I don’t want to impose.”

“Not at all,” Jonny says, smiling a little gratefully. 

“Cool,” Patrick says loudly. “I’ll be back in a couple of weeks. A month, at the latest. Definitely by Christmas.”

*****

Three hours, four bonfires, two brawls, one car chase, and six arrests later, Patrick pushes the door of Bell, Book, and Candle open. The place is a pit of chaos. There are cups and candy wrappers littered everywhere, and the carcass of the piñata witch is swaying eerily, her legs bashed clean off. The soles of his boots stick to the floor that earlier was pristine and shiny white. 

He finds Jonny sitting in the little library, a large book settled on his lap. The girls are asleep on the beanbags, Jonny’s cape covering them. Belladonna is wrestling with an uncooperative Eugene Fitzherbert, biting at his ear and pouncing back for a chase.

“Hey,” Jonny says quietly, closing the book and shoving it under a bench. “How was it?”

“Crazy enough that I would have had to bring the girls to Caroline’s,” Patrick answers. “Thanks for watching them.”

“My pleasure,” Jonny says. “You want a drink?” He’s already up and walking towards the back of the store.

“How did things go here?” Patrick asks, settling himself down on the floor near his children, moving Beth’s twitching foot and smiling when she smacks her lips a few times. There’s a blob of candy stuck somewhere near her temple, and he hopes there’s no more in her hair. He tugs the cape down gently, but he can’t see much of his other daughter, her face covered by her own unruly mop.

“It was okay,” Jonny says, a little louder now that he’s further away. “Although I thought I was going to have to call you more than once.”

Patrick looks up sharply. “Were the girls —”

“Oh, no,” Jonny laughs. “Not for the girls. Not for any of the kids. It was the adults that couldn’t behave themselves. I finally got rid of them all about nine, and the girls passed out twenty minutes later, halfway through telling me a bedtime story. Kind of left me hanging, too.”

Patrick could spare him the suspense; every single story ends the same way nowadays, with Sir Jonathan saving Prince Patrick from some unfortunate predicament. Personally, Patrick is a little offended for Prince Patrick, who really needs to develop a better skill-set than shouting _hayelp_ from wherever it is he’s being held captive. His girls really seem to think that he’s in need of being saved.

“Thanks,” he says, taking the short tumbler Jonny hands him, and balking when the stench all but punches him in the face. “Jesus, what the fuck.”

“It’s Laphroaig,” Jonny says, settling down again. “Comes from the Hebrides in Scotland.”

Patrick thinks it should have stayed there. He can smell it without even having to sniff. “It stinks like burnt wood.”

“Tastes like it, too.” Jonny takes a small sip and sighs, his eyes closing in contentment. It’s a good look on him. “Try it, it’s festive.”

Patrick takes a breath before knocking the drink back and immediately gagging. “Ugh,” he says, slapping his chest until the urge to cough stops. He blinks the sting from his eyes, although it takes a few seconds for his vision to clear. “Man, that’s rank,” he wheezes.

“It’s not a shot, Patrick,” Jonny scolds, but he’s laughing. “It’s supposed to be savoured, enjoyed slowly.”

Patrick’s skeptical. “I’m pretty sure you mean _endured_.”

“Heathen,” Jonny says, still smiling a little, and Patrick smiles back, despite the foul taste in his mouth.

“So, this is some special occasion drink, huh?”

“It’s often had on Halloween,” Jonny says. “And yes, we’re celebrating.”

What exactly, Patrick wonders. The store’s a shambles and he’s not too sure that tonight is going to make any difference to Jonny’s sales tomorrow. But Jonny looks relaxed and peaceful in a way that would churlish to taint. “In that case,” he says, lifting his glass. “Cheers. Okay, no, sorry. I really can’t drink that, Jesus. But you know, cheers anyway.” 

Jonny laughs again and clinks their glasses together before taking Patrick’s from him. “All the more for me,” he says cheerfully. 

Patrick leans back and closes his eyes for a minute. “Have to go in tomorrow. Sunday is usually my day off, but the cells at the station are full and it’ll be a hell of a mess in the morning.” He slits his eyes open and finds Jonny watching him, his expression fond. “What?” Patrick asks, liking the scrutiny. “Something on my face?”

“Girls going to Caroline’s?”

“Yeah,” Patrick sighs, shifting a little. His ass is getting numb. “I’m going to be relying on her a lot now that Vinnie’s put himself on a three day week to get some more of his thesis paper done.”

“I can help out with the girls,” Jonny says, and Patrick is so surprised that he can’t answer for a few seconds.

“God, no,” he says, horrified by any obligation or imposition Jonny might have taken. “That wasn’t what I… I wasn’t _hinting_ , and there’s no way I could ask you to… Caroline loves having them, anyway.”

“Okay,” Jonny says easily. “But Vinnie brings them in everyday for an hour or so. They feed the cat while he freeloads my wifi.”

“Shit, sorry. I knew they were dropping by, but I didn’t know they were taking advantage —”

“That’s not what I said,” Jonny says, sharp. “And it’s not what I meant. I’m the one who asks them to stay.” He shrugs, looking down at his glass. “I like the company. I wouldn’t mind more of it.”

“Oh,” Patrick says. “Well.” He feels bad for Jonny being stuck in an empty store all day long, but he’s pretty sure that it’s not right to take advantage of Jonny’s loneliness or boredom. The right thing is to say, no, thank you. “Okay? I mean, if you’re sure? It’ll just be the days when there’s after-schools, so a couple of hours at the most —”

Jonny cuts him off with a dismissive wave. “I’ll watch them whenever.”

“Thanks,” Patrick says, trying to cram all of his appreciation into a smile. “I better get moving or I’m going to fall asleep right here.” He stands with a grunt, shaking the sudden pins and needles from his legs. “I’ll go over with the dog and open the door, and then come back for the girls.” 

“Don’t be stupid,” Jonny says, already reaching for Beth. “I’ll help.”

Patrick looks on helplessly as Jonny scoops her up. She’s _tiny_ in his arms, snuggling until she’s got her nose pressed into the dip of Jonny’s shoulder. It’s stupid, but she looks like she belongs there, and it’s even more stupid that it makes Patrick’s stomach feel suddenly fluttery. He keeps his eyes trained straight ahead as he carries his other child across the street and up the stairs.

“Thank you,” he says, leading Jonny back to the door, the girls safely deposited in their own bed.

“Anytime,” Jonny says, and Patrick’s heart kicks up when Jonny leans over and brushes a gentle thumb over his cheekbone.

“Soot.” Jonny turns his thumb over to show Patrick. “You’ve had it there since you came back.”

“Right,” Patrick says, feeling a little foolish. 

At least he didn’t do anything dumb, like lean in. 

*****

The following morning, the girls sleep in while Patrick gets ready for work and gathers up the bits they’ll need for the day at Caroline’s. When he pulls the drapes open, Maud Smythe is standing outside Jonny’s store, just staring in the window.

She’s still there after Patrick’s dressed, still there when he’s packed up the girls’ bag, still there when his coffee is cooling. 

“Morning Maud,” he calls from the door, and crosses the street when she doesn’t move. “Hey,” he says, touching her on the elbow until she turns around slowly.

“Look,” she says, tugging a glove off and holding her hand up. There’s a small bandaid covering the tiny wound, but that’s not what’s she showing him. Her thumb and forefinger are tiny and almost weird looking alongside the gross, shiny swells of her other fingers. Patrick watches as she curls and uncurls the two digits, rubbing the tips of them together while the rest of her hand stays rigid and uncooperative. There are knuckles today where gnarls were last night, where Patrick had watched Jonny rub the ointment. 

“I’ve been to every doctor in this state,” Maud says. “Every rheumatologist, every osteopath, and no one has been able to help me. No one.” She wiggles her fingers again, and looks up at Patrick, all the stern pride stripped from her face. “I had to give up crocheting eleven years ago. I couldn’t hold my grandson when he was born four years ago. I haven’t been able to make myself a pot of tea since last Christmas.”

For a second Patrick almost says that she could have asked for help, but then who would actually help her. Jeb Garrett is her closest neighbour and she’s been at war with him for as long as Patrick’s lived here. On the other side of her is Jack Rhodes, who can’t even look after himself, and is currently sleeping off his latest bender at the station.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and Maud looks at him like he’s missing the point before turning back to the window.

“Well,” Patrick says, the new November chill making him shiver a little. “Jonny doesn’t get here until late on Sundays.”

“I’ll wait,” Maud says, like she doesn’t mind.

*****

There’s a note shoved under the door when he gets home that afternoon. _Dinner at my place? 4? Tell the girls to bring boots and windbreakers if they want to help out with a little planting_.

*****

It’s possible that Patrick has never seen so much soil in his life, and right now the twins and Eugene Fitzherbert are wearing most of it.

“Isn’t this awesome, Dad?” Esmé shouts to be heard over the wind that’s battering her.

“Yep,” Patrick lies, glad that he brought a change of clothes for them, and even more glad that he hadn’t brought a change for himself. It’s meant that he could spend the evening supervising from a safe distance while Jonny and the girls planted onions, broad beans and spinach into window boxes. Patrick’s duties included fetching drinks, cheerleading, and calling Eugene Fitzherbert to heel when he got a little too rambunctious with the penned chickens. But mostly he got to watch, to see Jonny crouch down by the girls, pointing out things, shaking seeds into their hands, demonstrating how to use a trowel, always talking - words that often got lost in the wind before they reached Patrick’s ears.

“Dad,” Esmé shouts. “We’re going to see the tree. Are you coming with us to see the tree?”

“I’m good,” he calls back, squinting down the end of the garden to where Jonny and the girls are heading. Patrick’s never been much use at telling one tree from another, but it’s almost impossible to tell what this particular tree is. Or was. It’s a big, dead looking thing, a ruin of what was probably once a feature of this land. All that remains are a thick trunk and bare branches that reach up into the sky as if pleading with the heavens.

“We’re giving the tree our energy, Dad,” Beth yells.

“I’m surprised you have any left,” Patrick calls back, snorting when all three of them put their hands on the trunk and rest their heads against the bark. He thinks maybe the tree should be giving them energy, in the form of firewood. 

They leave the garden when the light gets too bad, stomping the mud from their boots. The girls look pink-cheeked and healthy, smiling through their shivers as Patrick and Jonny fireman-carry them to the downstairs bathroom. 

Patrick runs the faucet and holds their cold fingers under the warm water.

“Jonny’s house is nice, isn’t it, Dad?” Esmé says, her lips quivering and a little purple.

“Sure is,” Patrick answers, running a washcloth over her muddy face, and then stepping back in surprise. “Oh my, Esmé, is that you?”

She giggles while rolling her eyes. “Stop it, Dad.”

“Never,” Patrick promises, making one bad dad joke after another until the girls are clean and dressed in fresh leggings and t-shirts.

They join Jonny in the kitchen, where there’s a production line set up for dinner prep. Beth washes, Jonny peels, Patrick chops and Esmé gathers, and the end result is a stew that Patrick can’t wait to get stuck into. The girls help Jonny whip up some brownies while it cooks, and Patrick takes the opportunity to slip out of the kitchen.

There are four other rooms leading off the impressive hallway, all of them with high, ornate ceilings and bay windows. Patrick visits them all; a living room that’s mostly furnished in a formal fashion, a den that has a comfy sofa, a large flatscreen TV on the wall, and a mess of video games scattered around the floor. Patrick bends to skim through a few - FIFA, NHL, NFL, Mario Kart, Call of Duty. The good stuff.

There’s also an office/library with a computer, more chunky looking tomes, and novels from Dan Brown and Michael Crichton, dog-eared and bent at the spine. The last room is some sort of lab, a long steel bench almost buried under boxes of chemical equipment, tubes and tubing, and small jars like the one Esmé had handed Jonny last night.

Back out in the hall, Patrick can hear the girls singing a song about cakes, so he pads up the split staircase, his socked-feet light on the new carpet. There are photos running along the wall. A young boy with Jonny’s eyes wearing a dinosaur tattoo on his cheek, another, smaller boy with similar coloring beside him. The same boys as teenagers in front of a Christmas tree, arms around a short blonde lady and a man who suits his bald head. Some more family gatherings, BBQs, picnics, birthdays, the same four people appearing regularly in them. Further up the stairs are pictures of Jonny playing hockey, different jerseys, same pose. The last is a double frame of Jonny with someone that Patrick immediately recognizes. He’s peering in for a closer look when Jonny creeps up beside him.

“You got a search warrant, Sheriff?” he says, but he’s smiling.

Patrick looks back at the photo. “You never told me you played hockey with TJ Oshie.”

“I told you I lived in North Dakota.” 

“You didn’t tell my why, though. You must have been good.”

“I was okay.” 

“More than okay,” Patrick insists. “If you played with Oshie. I’m impressed.”

“Would you be even more impressed if I told you I dated him?”

Patrick can feel his eyebrows rise. “Big, if true.”

Jonny’s face is soft as he gazes at the photograph. “He was my first serious boyfriend.”

“What happened?” Patrick asks before he can stop himself. “I mean, you don’t have to answer that. I just —”

“Didn’t work out,” Jonny answers simply. “Not his fault. He’s a great guy.”

Patrick looks back at the photo, not too sure about that. Oshie looks like a bit of a douche. “And hockey?”

“Didn’t work out either,” Jonny says, but quieter, like that was the bigger loss. “Now, if you’re done with your snooping, let’s go eat.”

“In a minute,” Patrick says, easing himself onto the top stair. “There’s something else I’m curious about.”

Jonny takes the step a few below Patrick, twisting to sit on his hip .

“Maud Smythe,” Patrick begins. “I saw her this morning. She showed me her hand. More specifically, her thumb and finger, where you rubbed that cream. What was in that?”

“Nothing illegal,” Jonny answers slowly, making Patrick sigh impatiently.

“I didn’t think it was, moron. But like, you fixed it.”

“But like,” Jonny mocks, and grins when Patrick pulls a face at him. “All I gave Maud was some lanolin and aloe vera mixed with healing herbs and plants that are commonly found in conventional medicine.”

“Healing herbs,” Patrick repeats, wrinkling his nose.

“But you chose to ignore the conventional medicine. You do know that drugs such as codeine, digitalis, aspirin, quinine all come from plants? And that these are medicines that actual medical doctors use on a daily basis to keep people alive?”

“So why haven’t medical doctors prescribed this healing stuff for Maud before now? I mean, if this alternative medicine works.” 

“Complementary medicine,” Jonny says, firmly enough for Patrick to know he’s being corrected. “I have nothing but respect for science, and I would never tell anyone to ignore their doctor’s advice or stop taking their meds. Never. You get that, right?” Patrick nods, and squirms when Jonny reads his mind. “I don’t peddle false hope to vulnerable people who are in pain. But I do have a lot of faith in treatments that have helped arthritis patients like Maud since medicine was in its infancy, such as lanolin which is good for bone protection, and aloe vera which is an effective anti-inflammatory.”

“So what, your stuff works with Maud’s regular stuff, and suddenly she’s all good?”

Jonny shrugs. “I’d say she’s far from good, but some remission from pain is possible. I’d hope she continues to improve now that we’ve made a treatment plan.”

“A treatment plan?” Patrick bites back a rude snort, although he suspects that his amusement amuses Jonny. “Do tell.”

“And break confidentiality?” Jonny bites at a smile “Never. But I usually tell my clients to follow usual medical routine, which will be supplemented by some natural remedies. Maybe physiotherapy, contrast hydrotherapy, and take a close look at diet and exercise. And some wellness, of course.” 

“Of course,” Patrick echoes, mockingly. “Where would we be without a dose of wellness?”

“Consumed with our physical bodies and neglecting our mental health,” Jonny answers. His face is earnest and lively, his expression almost as verbal as his words. “Wellness therapies are holistic, and they help us care for our minds and our spirits. Being in constant pain, like Maud is, will really fuck your head up. You’re too sore to clean the house, so you stop having people over. That ten minute walk to wherever is too much, so you stop going. Suddenly you’re isolated, or isolating yourself. You can't get up to go to the store or cook a proper meal, and your diet suffers, or maybe you just don’t eat. You can’t care for yourself, so your physical health gets worse, and that feeds into your hopelessness. It’s all cyclical, you know?” 

And the thing is Patrick does know. He remembers dark days after Mel died, when the pain of his loss was physical. He wasn’t sick but his muscles ached, his body shook, and he was so damned tired all the time.

“We’re more than just our physical bodies,” Jonny says, softer, like he might know where Patrick’s thoughts have drifted to. “We’re emotional and spiritual beings, and those parts of us get hurt, too. They need to be looked after. And for all of us, hope should always be what dies last.” 

Patrick must do something funny with his face because Jonny sighs.

“Fine,” he says, shoulders drooping. “I’m busted. What I really did was put a spell on Maud’s cream. I’m just making up all this other shit to throw you off the scent.”

“Spell,” Patrick scoffs. “Yeah, because this conversation needs more mumbo-jumbo.” His eyes drop to Jonny’s hand, creeping closer to Patrick’s foot, barely brushing the fabric of his pants. 

Suddenly the air feels sticky, heavy, like it could coat the back of a spoon.

“There are so many things we’ve yet to learn, if we’d just open our minds a little,” Jonny says conversationally, like he’s not making every part of Patrick tingle with just the tease of his fingers. Patrick almost jerks when Jonny’s hand curls around his ankle, squeezing briefly before sliding down to the heel.

“And what,” Patrick says, his tongue a little thick. “You going to open my mind to the wonders of foot massage?”

“I’m going to do something,” Jonny says, smirking the hottest, filthiest smirk that Patrick has ever been on the receiving end of, and then pressing his thumb down purposefully on the sole of Patrick’s foot.

The sensation that rips through Patrick shoots up his thigh, across his groin and into his lower belly. He pulls his foot back and crosses his legs, pressing almost painfully while he rolls onto one hip. For a few horrifying seconds he thinks he might actually wet himself. “What the fuck did you do to me?” he gasps when he can speak again.

“Me and my mumbo-jumbo pressed on your bladder through your foot,” Jonny laughs, pushing to stand up. “You should probably go to the bathroom. Like now.”

“I should piss all over your lovely, new carpet,” Patrick throws back, but that doesn’t even put a dent in Jonny’s grin. 

***** 

They stay so late at the Mourns that Patrick’s expecting gale-force levels of crankiness the following morning, but the twins are out of bed as soon as he calls them, chattering and giggling their way through breakfast.

“It was the best time ever, Dad,” Beth declares. “Jonny told us all about the Rowan Tree. It’s very old. Older than anything in Eerie Falls, and it -”

“That’s great, honey,” Patrick says absently, juggling the iron and the fridge door while looking around for a hairbrush. He should have got up at least half an hour earlier. “You can tell me more after three bites of your toast. Ez, where are your shoes?”

“Dunno,” Esmé shrugs, picking at her cereal. “Can we have omelettes now?” 

“No eggs,” Patrick says, taking a run up the stairs and squashing himself under the bed to find Esmé’s sneakers. He adds vacuuming under there to the to-do list.

“I’m not wearing those,” Esmé says when he returns, plucking dust bunnies from his hair. “And I’m still hungry.”

“Esmeralda,” he says warningly, swearing a little when he realises that he’s forgotten to take his shirts from the washing machine. He’s going to have to iron one dry.

“Why are you putting cheese on our sandwiches?” Beth says. “We want bologna.”

“Don’t speak for your sister, Beth.”

“I want bologna,” Esmé says.

“We don’t have any bologna. I’ll pick some up later.”

“Ugh, cheese,” Beth moans. “And I’m hungry.”

“Well,” Patrick huffs, snapping the lids on the lunchboxes. “I dunno, have a banana or something.”

“The bananas are all brown and yukky,” Esmé whines.

“Can we have some of our Halloween candy?” Beth says hopefully.

Patrick shakes some of the creases from his shirt, and plugs the iron back in. _Absolutely not_ is the right answer to that question, but, “Just one piece,” is what he says. It buys him about twenty seconds of silence before Beth asks if she can have a crown braid.

Patrick glances at the clock. Ten minutes until the bus arrives. “Can’t you just wear hairbands today?”

“No,” Beth says. “Kyle Sosa has lice.”

“Jesus,” Patrick mutters. “Again?”

“That’s three times this year, Dad,” Esmé tells him.

“Fine,” Patrick says, abandoning the shirt to go looking for the hairbrush once more. “Upstairs now, hellions. Hands, faces, teeth. You have four minutes.”

He’s snapping the elastic band on Beth’s braid when the bus pulls up outside. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go,” he chants, pushing the girls ahead of him, giving both of them the wrong schoolbag.

“We didn’t have a bath last night, or a shower this morning,” Esmé reminds him while he zips up her coat.

“I know,” he says, pulling them in for quick hugs. “You’ll just have to be the smelly kids in school today. Don’t tell your teacher what a terrible dad I am.”

“I think she already knows,” Beth says.

It’s only when the bus pulls away that Patrick notices Jimmy Mac and Heather Bolt hanging around in the vicinity of Jonny’s store, both of them trying to look disinterested and engaged in regular activities. Heather is checking her phone, and Jimmy is pretending that he’s having trouble reading his watch.

“Store opens at nine,” Patrick shouts, and watches as they scatter away with indignant strides. 

*****

Jonny’s first shift in charge of the girls is on Wednesday. Patrick enters the store an hour after it closes, apologies bubbling on his lips. Beth is doing some sort of stock inventory, a clipboard in her hand and a pen in her mouth as she studiously counts candles. Esmé is sitting on the counter, her eyes squeezed shut. “Smells like cat pee,” she says to Jonny.

“Good girl.” He’s holding some sort of plant under her nose. “And what smells like cat pee?”

“Valerian. It makes you sleepy.”

“Well done,” he says, smiling a hello at Patrick. “And just one more.” He holds up another plant for Esmé to sniff.

“Sage. Good for memory,” she says, drumming her heels against the wood panels.

“Sounds like you’ve been eating some,” Patrick says. 

Her eyes fly open and she pounces into his arms. “Dad,” she squeals, kneeing him swiftly in the kidneys.

“Hi, baby,” he grins into her hair. 

“I’m Jonny’s prentice,” she says, pushing back a little, and beaming like this is the best announcement ever.

“You are?”

“Yep. He’s teaching me lots of things.”

“That’s so cool. And what about your sister?” Patrick raises his voice. “The one that hasn’t come over to say hello to her dad yet.”

Beth finishes checking the candles, and writes something on the clipboard, her tongue poking out in concentration. “Hi, Dad,” she yells suddenly and bounds over, already stretching her arms out. Patrick catches her easily, smacking a noisy kiss onto her cheek as she settles onto his free hip. Something warm bumps against his thigh, and he looks down at Eugene Fitzherbert. “Oh, the whole family is here.”

“We collected him because he was lonely and he likes playing with Belladonna,” Beth says. “And, Dad, guess what? I’m Jonny’s assistant. Right, Jonny?”

“Best assistant ever there was,” Jonny agrees. 

“An apprentice and an assistant?” Patrick says, impressed. “Glad to hear you’re earning your keep.”

“I say have a nice day to the customers and hold the door open for them,” Beth says. She sounds so proud of herself that Patrick can’t help but laugh.

“Customers?” he says to Jonny. “Maud been spreading the good word?”

“Yep,” Jonny nods. “Steady all day.”

“Sounds like you got two helpers just in time then,” Patrick says, smiling at his daughters. “And I’m sorry I’m so late. I got caught in Milton. But the good news is they have a Walmart there, and I picked up lots of bologna.”

“We like cheese now,” Esmé tells him.

“Of course you do,” Patrick groans, letting the girls slide down to the floor. “Go say goodbye to Belladonna. We’re leaving in five minutes.”

“Doesn’t Nance have bologna?” Jonny asks when Beth and Esmé trot over to the library, cat and dog hot on their heels.

“Yeah, but I’m boycotting that store. Or I’m barred from it. Definitely one of those, probably both.”

“Because of me?” Jonny asks, brows rising. “There’s really no need. Nance was one of my best customers today.”

Patrick grips the countertop dramatically. “Nance? _Nance_ came in here? And she didn’t burst into flames?” He laughs when Jonny pulls a face. “So, hey, thanks again. Sounds like the girls had a blast, and are learning a trade.”

“Is that okay with you? I mean, Esmé mostly.” 

“What? That you’re teaching her all this mumbo-jumbo stuff?” Patrick shakes his head. “Nah, man, that’s all good. She could do with a dose of your chill. She can be a little intense.”

“She reminds me of me when I was younger,” Jonny says.

That surprises Patrick. He would have thought Jonny more like Beth in nature, both of them always sticking their necks out for others, no matter how many times they get kicked in the head. “Really? I can’t ever imagine you being intense.”

“I was,” Jonny says, nodding and looking a little rueful.

“Interesting,” Patrick muses, steepling his fingers. “What happened?”

“I changed,” Jonny says. It’s not quite curt, but it’s definitely not inviting.

Patrick rolls his eyes. “Fine, keep on being an enigma,” he scoffs. “Did you also have no friends when you were her age?”

Jonny looks a little startled by that. “Esmé has no friends?”

“She has Beth,” Patrick says, shrugging. “But people don’t really interest her, which is why it was so weird that she liked you so much. No, not so much, so _instantly_. She’s not good with new people. She barely spoke to Vinnie when he started looking after them. Like, Beth would pretend she was Esmé, and talk to Vinnie so he wouldn’t feel bad.” Although that went down the river when Vinnie figured out how to tell the girls apart.

It hadn’t even been something that really concerned Patrick until late in the last school year when Beth had been home for a week with a viral infection. Ms. Alton had invited him to the school for recess so he could see for himself how his other child sat alone on the ground near the swings, her knees hugged to her chest. She hardly moved for the twenty minutes Patrick stood watching her while his heart broke. That was the first time Ms. Alton suggested a separation. Patrick countered with a suggestion of his own; he could drop by and play with Esmé during recess until her sister came back. 

Turns out, neither suggestion was deemed satisfactory.

“She’s been a bit handsy with some of the other kids this year,” Patrick continues. “Which is new. Mostly hair-pulling and a bit of shoving when anyone gets too close to her. September was a bit rough, but she’s getting better at resolving conflict.” That’s not strictly true; she’s getting better at removing herself from potential conflict. But Patrick is not getting called up to the school once a week anymore, and that feels like progress.

“I could do a little mindfulness with her,” Jonny suggests. 

“Mindfulness,” Patrick repeats, twisting his lips.

“Right,” Jonny says, again ignoring the hint of skepticism in Patrick’s tone. “It’s just a way of slowing down, and grounding yourself through meditation and breathing. It’s really good for people who are reactive or impulsive, helps them feel more in control.”

Reactive and impulsive might not be what Patrick is seeing at home, but it’s certainly what he’s been hearing from Ms. Alton. “Can’t hurt,” he says, shrugging. “Wait, it can’t hurt, right?”

“Well, there’s always a risk when it comes to breathing,” Jonny says dryly, looking over at Esmé. “She’ll find her way. You shouldn’t worry so much.”

Patrick huffs out a laugh. “I’m both parents to two six year old girls. I have a fucking PhD in worrying.”

“You’re a great dad,” Jonny says, quiet but fierce. “You’re doing an amazing job with your kids.” 

“I think I do okay,” Patrick admits. He does his best with what he has. Most of the time it feels like he gets through the day by the seat of his pants, but he doesn’t miss the important things. He’s always there in the mornings, attends every school performance, uses his vacation days for trips to the dentist, knows the exact date, day and time of the annual visit to the pediatrician. His bed is always available when there are nightmares or illnesses.

“More than okay,” Jonny insists. Patrick can see some of that earlier-mentioned intensity in his dark eyes. It’s hard to look away, and Patrick doesn’t until Jonny clears his throat.

“So,” Jonny says into the sudden silence. “Can you get a sitter for the girls sometime over the weekend?”

“Yes?” Patrick says, and then winces at how surprised and eager that sounded. “Yes. For what?” 

“Dinner,” Jonny smiles, like maybe he’s laughing a little at Patrick. But his eyes are serious and a little apprehensive. 

“Dinner,” Patrick repeats. “Just us?”

“Yes, Patrick. Dinner. For just us.”

Patrick swallows, hard. “Cool,” he says lamely.

*****

He arrives at the Mourns just before eight on Saturday night, holding out a six pack. “I’ve also brought an empty stomach and two opposable thumbs,” he tells Jonny while thumping his sneakers onto the mat. 

“I can help with the empty stomach,” Jonny says, taking Patrick’s coat and folding it over his arm. “But I’m not sure about the thumbs?”

“Video games, Jonny,” Patrick grins. “Tonight I am not a dad, I am not a sheriff, tonight I am —” He drops his voice dramatically. “The Dark Destroyer.”

“The what now?”

“That was my gaming name, back in the day,” Patrick laughs. “I retired it when the girls came along.” He makes his way easily to the den, snapping on the light behind the door.

“Maybe later?” Jonny says, appearing behind him. “I thought we might have a drink out on the back porch before dinner.”

Patrick’s already on his knees, fiddling with the console cables. “You mean go outside?” he says over his shoulder. “Where the wind chill is like minus a billion?”

“I’ve lit the woodburner. I have blankets. It’ll be warm,” Jonny says. He’s leaning against the door frame, looking like he doesn’t much want to step inside.

“It’s already warm in here,” Patrick reasons. “And there’s light and video games. God bless technology.”

“There are stars outside,” Jonny says, smiling a little. “And a beautiful moon in the sky.”

“Pfft,” Patrick scoffs. “I can see the moon any night of the week. I haven’t played video games in years. The last time I had a Playstation, there weren’t any numbers after it.”

“Fine,” Jonny snorts softly. “Knock yourself out. I’ll go see to dinner.”

“Hey, no,” Patrick cries, pushing up onto his feet. “Play with me. C’mon, Jonny. I’m not playing by myself.”

Jonny sighs, and looks towards the kitchen. “I really don’t want to play, Patrick. And I have to take the duck out of the oven.”

“Duck,” Patrick smirks. “Don’t you mean chicken?” He stalks towards Jonny, moving his arms like wings. “Bwak, bwak, bwak, bwak, bwwwaaaaaak.”

“Oh my god,” Jonny laughs, pushing Patrick away. “The Dark Destroyer is a fucking dick.”

“Yeah, he’s heard that before, but if you play hockey with him for half an hour, he’ll go away.”

Jonny still doesn’t look to sure. “Okay,” he says finally, catching the controller that Patrick tosses to him and following him over to the sofa. “But not hockey. I have GTA and Assassin’s Creed, and Black Ops.”

“You’d rather shoot at me than shoot pucks with me?” Patrick says, clutching his chest in mock horror.

“Right now, yes.”

“Tut-tut,” Patrick says sadly, shaking his head. “I knew there was an edge to you, Jonathan Toews. But the NHL disc is already in the console.” And loaded on the screen. “I don’t even know how to play this game, so you’ll probably win.”

For the first time, Jonny starts to look a little interested. He sits back, his thigh resting against Patrick’s, and gets things started by playing like a boss. “Ha, too slow,” he chirps. “Way too slow… you even playing there… your controller not working… oh, yes, baby… that’s how it’s done… motherfucking beauty… suck it, because you suck… oh, c’mon, man, my balls dangle better than that… what?... what?”

Patrick stares at him. “It’s like watching Bambi snort crack-cocaine. You’re even meaner than the Dark Destroyer.”

“I’m better than him, too,” Jonny boasts, and wins again. 

But for all that Jonny’s a terrible crower, Patrick is a quick learner, and an even better thwart. By the third game, he has the controls and speed figured, and Jonny gets very red in the face when Patrick taunts him between goals - thinly veiled insults about his masculinity, his parentage, and his sanity.

“For the hattrick,” Patrick croons. “He dekes and he dekes and he shoots. Sc…” The screen freezes just as the puck hits the line. Patrick swears, pressing harder on the buttons and then shaking the controller when that does nothing. “What the fuck. Jonny, man, this thing’s stuck. Right before I was about to score, too, which is massively convenient for you.” When he turns his head, Jonny is staring at the TV, looking absolutely stricken. “Hey,” Patrick says, suddenly uneasy. “You okay?”

Jonny is so still that Patrick reaches out a hand and taps his thigh. “Jonny?” That seems to snap Jonny out of his fugue, his eyes dropping to Patrick’s hand, and then knocking it away with his own.

“Jonny?” Patrick tries again, but Jonny is on his feet and out the door before Patrick can say anything else.

Patrick gives them both a moment before going to find him.

“Did I do something?” he asks when he walks into the kitchen. “You know I didn’t mean that shit I was saying? I’m sure your parents are lovely people.” 

Jonny has his back to him, and the silence isn’t in any way reassuring.

“The game isn’t broken,” Patrick continues. “It just crashed. If that’s what you’re pissed about.”

“I’m not pissed,” Jonny says flatly, taking what Patrick assumes is the duck out of the oven. He has to assume, because what’s on the tray doesn’t much resemble anything that he’s ever eaten. It’s a mess of black and raw flesh.

“Did it explode?” he asks, daring to take a step closer.

“It’s ruined,” Jonny says, poking at it with a fork. Patrick can’t help but think that maybe he’s not just talking about the bird. And he doesn’t even know how that happened. Thirty minutes ago, he was on the doorstep, his stomach light and fluttery. Now he feels like it’s lined with lead.

“Okay,” he says calmly. “Well, I’m sure between us, we could rustle up a few sandwiches with whatever else you have in the fridge. We could take them outside and you could throw that carcass into the woodburner. Should keep us warm for a while.” When Jonny does nothing more than stare at his ruined offerings, Patrick loses patience. “You’re going to have to give me some sound to go with this picture, man.”

“I don’t feel well,” Jonny says shortly.

“You don’t feel well,” Patrick echoes, and when he looks at Jonny he can see that much is true at least. He’s waxy pale, his forehead clammy and shiny. The duck probably has a more healthy pallor. “Maybe you should sit down.”

“I think I have to go to bed,” Jonny says, and starts clearing the plates and glasses that he had laid out for dinner. Packing up the evening, putting it away. 

“Can I do anything?” Patrick asks, and Jonny answers by looking at the door.

Right. “I’ll see myself out,” he says, and then does.

*****

Beth is glued to his hip the following morning. “Flip now, Dad?” she says, waving the spatula dangerously close to his face. 

“Go for it,” he says and yawns into her hair, holding onto the pan while she turns the pancake in it.

“Did you have a nice time with Jonny?” Esmé chimes from the kitchen table, where she’s downing her own pancakes, both of them covered in maple syrup. 

“Sure,” Patrick says easily, and tosses out a deflection. “Did you have a nice time with Vinnie?”

“We played Parcheesi and cards. And we watched a show about goats,” Beth answers. “There was this goat who had to cross the river to get to the salty rocks on the other side.”

“He’s at the door,” Esmé says.

“The goat?” Patrick frowns, turning down the stove. 

“Jonny.”

“I didn’t hear a knock,” Patrick says, just as the doorbell rings.

“It’s Jonny,” Esmé repeats.

“Dad,” Beth admonishes when Patrick doesn’t go to the door. 

“If it’s Jonny, he can wait,” he says firmly, and she stiffens in his arms. “Because Jonny wouldn’t want your breakfast to burn,” he adds, softer.

“It’s ready now,” Beth insists, but Patrick waits another full minute before tossing the pancake onto the plate.

“Stay,” he orders, wagging a warning finger before making his way to the front of the house.

It is Jonny, looking guilty and hesitant, but less like he’s going to throw up. There’s a large cardboard box in his arms that Patrick gives little more than a cursory glance to.

“Shouldn’t you still be in bed?” Patrick asks, and it comes out even more pissy than he intended. 

Jonny’s shoulders hunch. “I… I need to get some things ready for the store.” 

“Physician, heal thyself,” Patrick suggests. 

“I’m feeling better,” Jonny says quietly, glancing away. “And I’m sorry about last night. I’m really, really sorry. I was… rude.”

Patrick doesn’t argue, even though Jonny looks sorry and he’s saying sorry. It’s just not really good enough right now. Patrick had spent the night blinking at his clock and wondering just what the hell he did that was so terrible that he got thrown out of someone’s house, so Jonny can choke on the silence.

“Anyway,” Jonny continues, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot. “This is for you.” He thrusts the box at Patrick.

Patrick squints inside and tries to push it back. “I’m not taking your Playstation. Jesus.”

“I’m giving it to you,” Jonny says, with another push that almost knocks Patrick over.

“Well, I don’t want it.”

“Please,” Jonny says desperately. “It’s just. You were so excited about playing, and I feel like I ruined that for you. Look, you don’t have to keep it if you don’t want to. Just borrow it for a couple of days.”

Patrick feels a slight thaw in his chest because Jonny’s face is miserable, and he’s blinking sorrowful, dark eyes, like the weapons of mass manipulation they are.

“Okay,” he says. It’s not exactly gracious, more of a _I’ll take your stupid-ass console, and in return, I might speak to you if I see you on the street, but forgiveness for your asshattery is very much pending._

There’s a lot of relief in Jonny’s smile. “I have to go,” he says, beginning to shuffle away from the door. “Tell the girls I said hi.”

“Sure,” Patrick says sarcastically. He closes the door before Jonny can respond.

The outrage when he goes back into the kitchen alone is vicious.

“But where did he go?” Beth whines, dismayed, looking around Patrick as if Jonny’s going to suddenly appear and shout _punked_. “I kept one of my pancakes for him.”

“I don’t think he was hungry,” Patrick says. “But you will be if you don’t eat it. It’s a two and a half hour drive to Buffalo, and I’m not stopping for snacks.”

“But why didn’t he come in to see us?”

“Maybe he only came to see me,” Patrick teases.

That’s met with two stony glares. “You saw him on your own last night,” Esmé mutters mutinously. 

Patrick sighs and decides to take one for the team. “He wanted to come in, but then I told him that Grandma Donna is expecting us before midday. He said he’ll see you soon.”

“Tomorrow,” Esmé says, still pouting.

“Tuesday,” Patrick corrects, and he’s not too sure about that either. He probably shouldn’t leave his kids with someone he isn’t really speaking to. Maybe he should talk to Caroline.

“Tomorrow,” Beth insists. “At the recital.” 

“I only have two tickets. The other one is for Grandma Caro.”

“She won’t come,” Beth says, and the matter-of-fact tone tugs sharply at his heart. “You can give Jonny her ticket.”

“Maybe I’ll give Jonny my ticket,” Patrick muses, and laughs when the girls squeal with betrayal.

*****

They go for a walk along the lakeshore after lunch, which gives Patrick the chance to stretch his legs after the car journey and digest the obscene amount of roast chicken he just shovelled down his throat. The girls are ahead, their grandparents and Jacqui struggling to keep up with them.

“So, your theory is that this Jonny is still hung up on Sidney Crosby,” Erica is saying. “And playing a hockey video game made him remember his broken heart, and so he freaked out.”

“Nobody mentioned Crosby,” Patrick huffs, kicking at the shale under his feet. “And I didn’t say it was a great theory.” 

“But it is great,” Jess says, and there’s a tart turn to her tone that immediately makes Patrick feel itchy. “Because now Jonny is emotionally unavailable, and it absolves you of any accountability for your part in sabotaging this date.”

Patrick stops dead. “What the fuck, Jess. Firstly, knock the Cosmo relationship psychology bullshit on the head. Secondly, it wasn’t a date. And thirdly, I didn’t _sabotage_ anything.”

“Oh, put the injured eyes away,” she scoffs, rolling her own. “He pretty much spelled it out for you. Dinner, at his place, _alone_. There were blankets, and drinks under the stars, and fires. Fucking textbook date. And even though Jonny went to all this effort, you knocked it back so that you could play video games, a _hockey_ video game, when you knew there was history there.”

“Also,” Erica chimes in. “You brought the Dark Destroyer to third wheel, and everyone hates that asshole.”

Patrick stares at her, betrayed, and then turns back to Jess. “I had no idea that he was going to get fucking weird over some dumb game.”

“No, you didn’t,” she concedes, linking his arm and tugging until he starts walking again. “But if this was about losing his ex or losing hockey, you should have understood. It’s where you should have stepped up, because if anyone knows loss, it’s you. But instead you made _his_ thing about _you_. And now you’re telling yourself that you feel hurt and disappointed, which is probably true. But it also lets you hide what else you’re feeling, which is relieved.”

Patrick can’t believe that this conversation has run away from him so quickly. “ _He_ was an asshole —”

“You like him,” Jess cuts in. “You _really_ like him and you’re scared. And now you get to cut him off, and tell yourself that that it’s for the best. I mean, you tried, right? He was the asshole and you’re the victim in all of this.”

He turns to Erica for some support, but she just shrugs and says, “Carey Price?”

“Oh, fuck off,” Patrick says wearily. “I’m not telling you who Jonny’s ex is. And you know what, Jess? I never said I was a fucking victim, and I have more than myself to think about here. The girls —”

“Love this guy,” Erica finishes for him. “Even Ez, and winning her over is no easy feat. So don’t even think about hiding behind your daughters, Patty. We all know there is no world where they don’t come first. But first doesn’t mean _all_. You can be a dad and have a relationship.”

Patrick scowls down at the ground. He hates how quickly they make him forget that he’s a grown-ass man who takes charge of two offspring and an entire town every single day. Ninety minutes. He’s been here ninety minutes and he already wants to stomp off to his room and sulk.

“Look,” Erica says. “I know you came out to have good time and you’re honestly feeling so attacked right now, but —”

“Oh my god,” Patrick says, trying to break free, but his sisters hem him in from both sides, snorting into his shoulders. They push and press at him until he gives in and laughs with them.

“What if,” he says when they start ambling. “What if I do like him?”

“I don’t think that’s the problem,” Jess returns mildly.

“Fine. What if it goes wrong?” 

And if that doesn’t just smash open the floodgates. _What if I’m misreading something? What if I start to like him even more and he can’t get over his own past stuff? What if he does like me and we date and he changes his mind, or I change mine. What if the girls get too attached and that becomes a shitstorm. What if he leaves. What if he stays and meets someone else. What if_ — 

“What of it?” Jess shrugs. “That’s the chance everybody takes when they put themselves out there. I know you think I’m taking his side, but I don’t really care about Jonny’s feelings, to be honest. I care about you finally starting to _live_ your life again instead of just existing. Do you know that this is the first time you haven’t spent your entire visit complaining about that dump of a town you live in? This is the most fun I’ve had with you in forever, Pat. You’re talking about regular stuff, like someone that interests you, someone that makes you feel things. You sound like a thirty year old guy.” She bumps against him almost aggressively. “You know what I wish for more than anything? What I wish for every night before I go to sleep? I wish you were happy again.” 

Patrick blinks quickly, his eyes suddenly hot and heavy.

“Jonny could be just what you need right now,” Erica says. “And maybe he needs you to help him get over Eric Staal.”

“Erica,” he says warningly, and then sighs. “I’m not even fully sure of what’s on the table.”

“So find out,” Jess says. “Maybe you won’t get everything, but you already have something, and that sure as hell beats a whole lot of nothing.”

“Exactly,” Erica says. “Get to know him more. You might even find out that he’s not that great. I mean, maybe you don’t want to date Patrick Sharp’s sloppy seconds.”

“You’re going to run out of Canadian hockey players soon,” Patrick says.

“Yeah,” she agrees. “But then I’m moving onto American ones.”

Thankfully, Jacqui is making her way back towards them before that starts. “Man,” she huffs, bending to catch her breath. “I love my nieces with every bone in my body, but I cannot hear one more word about this Jonny dude.”

“You might want to keep running then,” Jess laughs.

Patrick is both cursed and blessed by the women in his life.

Mostly blessed.

*****

The girls are almost asleep by the time they get back to Eerie Falls, and unconscious before Patrick is even half-way through the bedtime story. He heads back downstairs to empty the dryer, but pauses when he spots the Playstation behind the door, still in the box it arrived in.

He looks between it and his watch. It’s only nine fifteen. He could play for an hour and then sort through the laundry. 

At eleven thirty, he decides on one more game. He’ll get up a bit early tomorrow. 

At one a.m., he rubs his hands over his aching eyes. 

At two twenty, he boxes up the console and games, and leaves them in the hallway.

His body is done when he finally falls into bed, but his mind is nowhere near as cooperative. It keeps drifting back to last night, and what might have been, had he been less focussed on his own agenda, and more open to Jonny’s. There was nothing there Patrick wouldn’t have liked - food, drink, and good company under the stars, warmed by blankets, fires, and laughter. 

He’s definitely had worse evenings.

Maybe they would have sat close to each other, or moved closer as it got darker and colder. There might have been kissing, which Patrick really wouldn’t have hated. And sex, not an assumption, but a possibility. Just the thought of it shocks a bolt down his spine, spreading an ache across his lower back.

Sex. It’s been so long. Too long.

He misses it; the act, and the intimacy. Someone else’s hands - Jonny’s hands - on him. 

Patrick squirms, sliding his palms down his stomach. He could jerk off. It wouldn’t take long, and it might push him into sleep. 

But after the five hour marathon with the playstation controller, his wrists and fingers are stiffer than his dick.

The irony of being cockblocked by the Dark Destroyer for a second consecutive night is not lost on him.

*****

An incessant knocking on the front door drags him from an uneasy sleep the following morning.

“What?” he snaps, pulling it open. The sudden blast of icy air makes him shiver and bounce on the balls of his bare feet.

“I want you to arrest that woman,” Mikey Dingus demands, his hand still high in the air, like he might start banging on the open door.

“What woman?” Patrick says, squinting towards where Mikey is glaring. It’s still dark, and it’s a bit of a struggle to make out the figure standing outside Jonny’s store, face almost pressed against the glass. “You want me to arrest Debs?”

“I _demand_ you arrest her,” Mikey cries, voice wobbly with dismay.

“For what?”

“Line jumping.” 

“Line jumping?” Patrick repeats.

“Yes! I was there first, and then she came along and forced herself in front of me.” 

Patrick watches as Loni Young appears and takes her place behind Debs. 

Mikey howls in protest. “Arrest both of them.”

Patrick is not even nearly awake enough to deal with this.

“I’ll arrest _you_ if you knock on this door again,” he says, and slams it in his face. _Jesus_.

“Who is it, Dad?” Beth shouts as she pads down the stairs.

Patrick’s trying to guess the time, weighing up whether he can send her back up to bed when his alarm screeches throughout the house.

‘Got it,” Esmé hollers. There’s a scurry as she races into Patrick’s bedroom, followed by a thump as the clock clatters to the ground. Patrick decides to ignore its likely demise in favor of embracing the sudden, blessed silence.

“Who was at the door?” Beth repeats.

“Some crazy person,” Patrick mutters. “Come on, Grandma Donna gave us frittatas for breakfast. Ready in ninety seconds.” 

When he’s set the slices into the microwave, he goes back to pull the drapes and turn on the light. It’s a warning to the small gathering outside the store that he’s watching, but they seem to have formed an uneasy truce, standing silently like strangers waiting on a bus.

“Something happened to your clock, Dad,” Esmé announces from the foot of the stairs.

Patrick arches a brow. “Something? Or someone?”

“Something,” Esmé insists. She skips into the kitchen to get away from any further interrogation. Patrick takes a last look out the window before joining her.

Frittatas aren’t the only gift from Buffalo. Donna has pretty much stocked their fridge for the next week, and the chicken sandwiches and fruit cups make lunch prep nothing more than a transfer to school bags. For the first time in a long time, Patrick is ready to leave the house with the girls.

The store is opened when they step out onto the sidewalk, although there’s no sign of Jonny or his customers. Patrick doesn’t hang around; as soon as the bus pulls away, he gets in the cruiser and makes his way to his mother-in-law’s house.

“Hi,” he says, taking advantage of her surprise by walking into the hallway, and then further into the living room. It smells of lavender and stale air, and Patrick itches to open a window.

“Are the girls okay?” Caroline asks, following.

Patrick turns to face her. “They’re fine. I told you about their recital, right? I texted you what, five or six times? Maybe you forgot, but it’s tonight, and they’d love you to be there.”

Caroline pulls her shawl closer and walks to her shrine, where there are candles burning under the many framed pictures of her daughter. Photographs of Mel when she was a baby, then a toddler, a kid grinning during her first day of school, some gymnastic event. It’s a timeline that’s all but eviscerated her marriage and her husband. There’s not one picture of Patrick, and the only one that even acknowledges his existence is of Mel with the girls ten minutes after their birth. Mel, exhausted and stunned, looking at her babies, so utterly in love that seeing it again steals the breath from Patrick’s lungs.

“I can’t go,” Caroline says. She doesn’t even bother reaching for an excuse.

“Sure you can,” Patrick says lightly. “We can pick you up and drop you home. Good tickets, too. Front row seats. The full high-def, emphasis on deaf, experience.”

“No,” Caroline says, louder. 

Patrick fights a brick wall of frustration, and loses. “This isn’t fair on the girls. They lost Mel, too. They miss her, too.” He hates that she keeps ownership of the mourning, like no one else has any right to it. “And they miss you. It would mean so much to them if you would just turn up this evening.”

Her face shutters, lips thinning. “Please leave,” she says quietly. “I don’t want you here.”

Patrick nods. This was a bad idea, poorly executed. “You didn’t die,” he reminds her, because sometimes he wonders if she’s forgotten that.

“And neither did you,” she returns.

_It’s your fault_ , is what she means. She’d said that so many times in those awful first weeks, when she’d remind him that he was supposed to pick up the diapers before he went on the evening shift. The diapers Mel never made it home with.

Just in case he forgot.

“If you change your mind,” he says, and then leaves when she shows him her back.

*****

It’s still on his mind a few hours later, and he almost misses Jonny when he drives past him. Patrick brakes and executes a definitely illegal U-turn before pulling up against the curb.

“Hi,” Jonny says hesitantly when Patrick hops out of the car. He watches warily as Patrick reaches for the Playstation box from the passenger seat.

“There’s a reason why I don’t own one of these anymore,” Patrick says. “For the sake of my children and my health, please take it back.”

“Oh,” Jonny says, looking between Patrick and the box. “Did you stay up all night playing this thing?”

“We partied long and hard,” Patrick sighs. “And parting is such sweet sorrow, and all of that. But, here.” He jigs the box until Jonny takes it. “And thanks,” he adds, hoping he sounds suitably sincere and contrite.

“No problem,” Jonny says. “And look, about Saturday night, I really am sorry —”

“No,” Patrick cuts in. “ _I’m_ sorry.”

“No, you didn’t do anything. It was me. I was —”

“I was weird, when I arrived at your place,” Patrick says. “Then you were weird. And you followed up by apologising and bringing me a gift, and I followed up by being an ass. But, I accepted your gift, so —” He shrugs. “You should accept my apology.”

The corners of Jonny’s mouth quirk upwards. “Cute,” he drawls, and then smiles for real. “So, we’re good?”

“Yeah,” Patrick nods, smiling back, and feeling a giddy gush of relief. “I think so.”

They kind of just stare weirdly at each other for a few long seconds before Jonny blinks and jerks his head in the direction of the store. “You got time for a coffee?”

“Can’t,” Patrick says, regretfully looking towards where he should be going. “I’m actually on a high-speed chase after a thief.” 

Jonny follows his gaze. “Should I let you get on with it?”

“Nah, I’ve got a minute. He’s on a bicycle and I know where he’s going. But if you’re free later, I do happen to have one highly sought after, almost impossible to get, ticket to the elementary school recital tonight. Right now they’re selling on Ebay for ones of dollars.”

Jonny looks genuinely touched. “I’d love to go,” he says sincerely. 

“Cool. And heads up, the girls are performing _Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star_ on their violins. You’ll thank me for that later when it sounds nothing at all like _Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star_. Unfortunately, they’ve inherited their musicality from yours truly.” Patrick jerks two thumbs at himself. “Worst double bass player ever.”

“You played double bass?” Jonny snorts.

“Well, no,” Patrick admits. “Fucking thing was so huge I could barely hold it. I spent more time under it than playing it.”

Jonny’s head tilts knowingly. “Why do I get the feeling that there was a girl involved?” 

“A boy, actually,” Patrick laughs. “He was the school band’s lead flutist. All floppy hair and misunderstood youth. I thought he was magnificent.”

“And was he impressed?”

“Fuck, no. He thought I was ridiculous, and upon reflection, he wasn’t wrong.”

Something else ridiculous is how much Patrick loves making Jonny laugh, that little bubble that hops around in his chest when Jonny’s eyes slim and crinkle at the corners.

“Okay,” he says, because this seems like a good moment to leave things. “I should go catch a criminal mastermind, and you should probably get back to the store before another fight breaks out.”

“There was a fight?” Jonny asks, surprised. 

“Not really,” Patrick says. “It’s just that the little mob outside was getting antsy at ass o’clock this morning. Maybe you need to open earlier or start giving out appointments.”

Jonny’s face relaxes. “It’ll sort itself out.”

“Easy to say when you weren’t the one who had to open the door in his underwear this morning,” Patrick mock-grumbles, easing himself back into the cruiser. “Are appointments too establishment for you? Too civil obedience? Is this your way of socking it to the man, Jonathan? Screwing over the authorities with your hippie anarchy?”

“Yes, Patrick, that’s exactly what it is,” Jonny says, slapping the roof of the car. “Fuck the police.”

“Oh my god,” Patrick groans, grinning when Jonny strolls away, cackling to himself. 

*****

When he rounds the corner, Si Sloan is standing on the grass verge looking down at the pieces of his bike.

“What happened to your getaway vehicle?” Patrick drawls, stepping out of the car. 

“The wheels fell off,” Si answers, his expression somewhere between dismay and disbelief. “I was cycling perfectly fine, and all of a sudden the bike started to shake, and then both wheels just...fell off.”

Patrick steps closer. “Did something snap?”

But it was obvious that nothing had, the nuts and bolts were all there, lying almost neatly beside the wheels.

“Maybe they were loose?”

Si throws him an _oh please_ look. He’s a mechanic’s son, and this is a well loved bike. “It’s weird,” he says. “It’s… it’s impossible.”

“And yet,” Patrick says with a grim smile. “Anyway, more importantly, show me what’s in your pockets.”

Si clucks his tongue and scowls, but Patrick stares him down until he drags two packs of dried lentils from his cargo pants. 

“I don’t even want to know,” Patrick sighs. “Just get those back to Nance, and take whatever punishment she has waiting for you. Without complaint.”

“Fine,” Si snaps. He stuffs the stolen merchandise back into his pockets, jams a wheel under each arm, and stalks off, the frame of the bike between his legs.

Patrick laughs to himself and feels even more excited about tonight because Jonny is going to love this story.

*****

Next year, Patrick is demanding to see a seating plan of the school hall. The tickets, as promised, are for the front row. They are also right under the speaker, which hasn’t been synced properly with the microphones. Every few seconds it send out a wail of feedback that makes Patrick’s teeth rattle. 

“My ears are bleeding,” he grunts at Jonny when the girls warble through their set, which sounds nothing like advertised.

“They do suck,” Jonny says cheerfully, but he’s on his feet, wolf-whistling and clapping while the girls beam and wave shyly. They take so many bows that they have to be escorted from the stage by the teaching assistant. 

“Oh you have got to be kidding me,” Patrick groans when Darren Walden and his tuba arrive. His eardrums are really not going to survive the night.

Thankfully the sound system blows just before Darren begins, and he’s left playing an acoustic set.

“That was a stroke of luck,” Patrick whispers, his head tilted towards Jonny. Not quiet enough though, judging by the glare of death that Garth is sending his way.

“Luck,” Jonny agrees. “Who’s up now?”

“Um,” Patrick says, looking down at the programme. “‘Next we have the fifth grade doing a scene from _Born Free_ through the medium of interpretive dance.’ Huh. I suspect that means they haven’t actually rehearsed anything.”

Jonny settles back comfortably in his seat. “Awesome,” he says, fistpumping. “I love interpretive dance.”

Patrick doesn’t doubt the sincerity of that. He’d mention the end of year school musical, but Jonny would probably drop dead with excitement.

“Well,” the girls demand when it’s finally all over. “Did you love it? Were we amazing? We were the best, right?”

“I think you guys definitely stood out,” Patrick laughs, ruffling both heads. “Jonny?”

Jonny crouches down, and the way that the girls trot to him without any hesitation makes Patrick ache a little. “I can honestly tell you that I’ve never heard anything like it in my entire life. I'm stunned. I don’t even know what to say.”

“You liked us best?” Beth presses, all pleading eyes.

“I _loved_ you best,” Jonny promises. His huge hands on the girls’ shoulders are probably what keeps them from levitating off the ground in utter delight. “And because this was such a big treat for me, how about I treat you guys to dinner at the diner? Anything you like, on me.”

“Can we, Dad? _Can we_?”

Like Patrick can say no. 

Like he wants to.

It’s only a short trip to Elmer’s, and the twins talk Jonny’s ears off the whole way. There are promises to play for him everyday, and maybe Belladonna would love it. They’re working on their next piece, _Jingle Bells_ , which they are hoping to debut for Thanksgiving, but after that they want to learn something by Beyoncé.

“That’s goals, Jonny,” Esmé tells him, entirely serious.

Elmer’s is almost empty and they have their choice of booths. The girls settle in with each other, leaving Jonny and Patrick to share. Their thighs press lightly together under the table, something that makes Patrick smile as he reaches for the menus. “What’s everyone having?”

“Pancakes,” the girls answer in unison.

“With chocolate chips,” Esmé adds.

“And bacon,” Beth says.

“Some fruit, too?” Jonny suggests, and Patrick gives him props for trying.

Elmer seems to be the only staff member on duty tonight. He grudgingly fills a couple of cups for some customers at the counter, and then shuffles over to the booth. His feet barely lift off the ground. “What’ll it be?” he asks like he doesn’t much care. 

“Pancakes for the girls,” Patrick answers cheerfully. “With chocolate chips, bacon, fruit and syrup.”

“Please and thank you,” Beth adds.

Patrick salutes her. “What the lady said. And can we have some juice and coffee, please and thank you, Elmer.”

“Breakfast finishes at midday,” Elmer monotones. He sighs and rubs his arm across the chest, as if trying to relieve the itch under the gauze bandages that cover his wrists and elbows. “Pancakes are on the breakfast menu.”

Patrick takes a deep breath and holds it. 

“You’re that guy with the store, right?” Elmer says, turning to Jonny.

“Think so,” Jonny answers mildly.

Elmer scrutinizes him for another minute, and Jonny looks back, expression placid. “I’ve been thinking of paying you a visit,” Elmer says eventually. He manages to make that sound as if he’s doing Jonny a favor. “Seeing as you helped Sonia with her bunions, and all. See, I got this.” He turns his arms over, displaying the bandages.

“Psoriasis?” Jonny guesses.

Elmer nods. “Bad flare up. The night-time itch is driving me nuts. Creams ain’t doing a thing. I tell the doc and he just gives me more creams that don’t do more things.”

“Okay,” Jonny says. “Why don’t you call the store tomorrow afternoon, and my wonderful assistant here --” He gestures to Beth. “Will help you make an appointment. Although, I should warn you that I’m booked up for the next week or so.”

“I answer the phone,” Beth explains to Elmer. “I say, ‘hello, this is _Bell, Book, and Candle_ , Beth speaking. How may I help you?’”

“And I’m the prentice,” Esmé adds, not to be outdone.

“My wonderful apprentice,” Jonny corrects, making her grin.

Elmer looks like he doesn’t much care about any of this. “Sonia didn’t say nothing about appointments,” he sniffs.

“If you’re buying or browsing, or looking for some quick advice, the store is drop-in,” Jonny says, like he’s agreeing. “But it was recommended to me very recently that one-on-one consultations should be by appointment only.”

Patrick coughs into a napkin, and Jonny kicks him under the table.

“Although,” Jonny adds when Elmer flips the page of his notepad. “I might be able to see you tomorrow if you can make some pancakes tonight.”

Elmer’s dull eyes sharpen a little. “You’re saying you’re too busy to see me unless I make you pancakes?”

“No,” Jonny answers, and there’s a little snap to his tone that makes Patrick sit up a little. “I really am fully booked up tomorrow. What I’m saying is if you go a _little_ bit out of your way to make these very deserving girls what they want to eat now, then I’ll go a _lot_ out of my way tomorrow evening by staying after hours to see you.”

“Oh,” Elmer mutters, almost chastised. “Well, I do have some batter left over from this morning.”

“Perfect,” Jonny says.

Before Elmer leaves, Beth reaches out to touch his bandaged wrist. “I’m sorry your arms are sore, Elmer,” she says genuinely. “I hope you feel better real soon.”

Patrick swallows painfully. He’s often thought if Beth were cut open they’d find only heart, from the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair.

Elmer looks down to her little hand. “Um,” he says, but when he looks at her face, his own softens. “Thank you, young lady.” He clears his throat. “So, pancakes.”

“I bet hugs would make him feel better,” Beth says when Elmer trots back to the kitchen.

Jonny smiles at her. “Yours certainly would. What else would make him feel better, Ez?”

Esmé leans in, elbows on the table, hands folded under her chin. “Stinging nettles, vitamin C, and quercetin might help his itchy.” She frowns, twisting her lips to one side. “Is there anything else?”

“Burning lavender and bergamot might help him relax. It can be very hard to get comfortable when you’re itchy,” Jonny replies. “And we could ask him if he wants to go to the Dead Sea.” 

“I wouldn’t want to go to the Dead Sea,” Beth says. “It sounds yucky. And dead.”

Jonny pokes her scrunched up nose and laughs when her eyes cross. “The reason it’s called the Dead Sea is because there is so much salt in the water that nothing can live in it. You can’t even swim properly in it because the salt makes people float.”

The girls _oooh_ at that idea for a moment. “And will floating fix Elmer’s sore skin?” Esmé asks.

“The salt could help it. And the sun.”

“But sun is bad for your skin,” Beth says. “We have to put on cream in the summer to stop it burning us. Right, Dad?”

“Absolutely right,” Patrick agrees. The Kane genes are strong, particularly when it comes to fair skin. 

“Which is very sensible,” Jonny says, nodding seriously. “But the clouds over the Dead Sea block out most of the sun’s harmful rays, especially the ones that cause sunburn.”

“So,” Beth says, head tilted as she weighs this all up. “Elmer would get the good sun?” 

“Exactly,” Jonny says, and then stops talking because Elmer is making his way back to them, both hands gripping a large tray. The girls forget all about his ailments as they set upon the pancakes with more fillings than they asked for, and swallow it all down with noisy gulps of fresh orange juice.

“Does it cost a lot of money to go to the Dead Sea, Jonny?” Beth asks after a few minutes.

“Sure does, honey.”

She takes another bite of her pancake and chews thoughtfully. “I don’t think Elmer has a lot of money. There are holes in his pants and holes in his chairs and holes in his floor.”

“I think Elmer forgot to look after his store the same way that the people forgot to look after the Rowan Tree,” Esmé adds.

“That’s probably true,” Jonny nods. He nudges his leg against Patrick’s. “You’re quiet.” 

Patrick shrugs. “Just taking it all in.”

Not the conversations about seas and healing sun rays and other mumbo-jumbo, but _this_. Being here and not wanting to be anywhere else. His ears are still ringing a little, he had three hours sleep last night, and he’s sitting in a rundown diner in this shitty town, having the mother of all epiphanies.

For the first time in as long as he can remember, Patrick wouldn’t change a single thing about his life right now. Or the three people who are unconsciously sharing this rather profound moment with him.

“Tell me more about this tree,” he adds, in case he’s being a bit weird. 

“It’s the one in Jonny’s garden,” Beth says, and pauses to lick some syrup from her palm. “It used to be very big and very tall. Right, Jonny?”

“Right, Beth.”

“And it was a very special tree,” Esmé adds. “People used to bring it presents. Like, everyday, Dad, not only on its birthday. Right, Jonny?”

“Right, Esmé,” Jonny says, smiling at her over his coffee cup.

“I see,” Patrick nods. “And what exactly do you buy for a tree as an everyday gift?”

“You don’t buy it,” Esmé answers. “You find it. It likes wool and apples, right, Jonny?”

“And tomatoes,” Beth adds. “And hay, and beeswax, and honey. Right, Jonny?”

“That’s right, girls.”

Esmé looks back at Patrick. “These presents came from the earth, so they went back to the earth beside the tree, and they made it get big and strong. Because it’s cycling.” She wrinkles her nose. “Is it cycling?”

“Cyclical,” Jonny says, leaning over to steal the last strawberry, and laughing when she squawks in protest.

“But, Dad,” Beth says, suddenly sombre. “Then after lots of years, people forgot to bring presents, and they forgot about the tree. And the tree got sad and wasn’t strong anymore.” 

“Oh no,” Patrick says sympathetically. He looks up at the grimy looking clock on the wall, and if it’s working, they need to think about leaving. “Come on, finish up, hellions. It’s late and you have school tomorrow. Right, Jonny?”

“Right, Patrick,” Jonny says, smiling down at his cup.

***** 

The Residents’ Committee meeting is two weeks later than normal owing to Reverend Carlton taking a vacation to visit his sister. When Patrick arrives at the hall, Maud is already there, emptying the contents of a hamper onto the table. Tiny, highly polished forks clang against bone china side-plates as she sets it all out.

“Hello,” Patrick says, uncertainly.

“Good evening, Sheriff,” Maud replies without looking up from her task. 

“What’s all this?” Ms. Alton asks from behind Patrick.

“No idea,” Patrick says, reaching quickly for a copy of the agenda. “I see that the reverend’s vacation has done little to improve his temperament,” he mutters while scanning the page. Grievances, complaints, boycotts, pickets, visitations, and Patrick’s own item - an application for a small bursary-like grant to be given to Vincent Hinostroza to aid the completion of his MA. It’s right up there with snowballs chance in hell.

Gerda and Plato are next in, glancing curiously at the unusual scene while they shrug out of their coats.

Maud does a quick headcount. “Just waiting on Matty and the reverend.”

“Matty’s not coming,” Plato tells her. “Do you have anything to go on these plates?”

Maud lifts the plastic covering from a larger plate. “I made a Victoria cake. It’s my grandmother’s recipe.”

Patrick’s eyes drop to her hands, which are still slightly swollen and shiny. Her fingers are slow to grip the knife, a little shaky while she slices through the cake, but they’re no longer misshapen and disfigured.

“Did you make this yourself?” he asks.

Maud answers with a stiff nod, like any further enquiries into her ability to bake again would be intrusive and unwanted. She is, however, pleased to accept compliments about the lightness of her sponge and the tartness of her jam. Conversation isn’t much more than sifting techniques and buttercream, but by Eerie Falls standards, this is holding hands around the campfire and singing _Kumbaya_.

The reverend arrives just as the plates are being stacked. He waits by the door for someone to begin cowering in his presence, for anyone to get up and hold the skirts of his coat as he thunders across the room.

But nobody gives him more than a mild glance.

“Plato,” he snaps, and begins striding meaningfully forwards. “What is the meaning of this? Where’s Matty? He was supposed to pick me up before seven.”

Plato sucks noisily on the tips of his fingers, and then pats his belly in contentment. “He’s not coming. His knee is still sore from the fall.”

“I didn’t know Matty got hurt,” Ms. Alton says. “Is he okay?”

“He is,” Plato says. “He’s been to see Jonny, so he’s on the mend.” He says it easily, like Jonny’s an old friend and not someone who was recently on the receiving end of a plot to run him out of town.

The reverend’s left eye begins twitching.

“Shall we begin?” Gerda suggests, opening her ledger. “Sheriff?”

Patrick quickly runs through the usual business, including an upcoming appointment of a new rookie deputy. “And while I have the floor, if I could quickly discuss item sixteen on the agenda. You all know Rick and Laura Hinostroza’s boy, Vinnie. He looks after my kids —”

“We know who else has been looking after your children,” the reverend sniffs.

“— and he’s due to hand in his thesis next month,” Patrick continues. “I was hoping that the committee might agree on a small contribution to his living costs while he takes some time off to finish his paper.”

The reverend puts on his favorite disapproving expression, folding his hands over his crossed knees. “It is not the purpose of this committee to cater for the frivolous needs of students who —”

“Vinnie is a great kid, who deserves a little payback,” Patrick cuts in. “He coaches the under twelves soccer team, and helps Gerda with the mobile library.” 

“Nonetheless,” the reverend says, like that’s the final word.

“C’mon,” Patrick huffs, determined to be at least considered. “I’m thinking maybe five hundred bucks, which is just enough to keep him in ramen, bus tickets and photocopy cards for the next month. It’s a gesture of goodwill more than anything.”

“Five hundred dollars is a lot of money,” the reverend says sanctimoniously. 

“It’s less than what your leaflets cost last month,” Ms. Alton says. Her accounting system is the most bizarre that Patrick has ever seen, nothing more than a gathering of receipts that live in a battered box. But she can immediately lay her hands on any scrap of paper she needs. “And since January of this year, you have also been given twelve hundred dollars to have your house repainted, three thousand dollars towards church roof repairs, nine hundred dollars to provide refreshments for visiting clergy, and fourteen hundred dollars for religious tapestries that were handmade by Mrs. Roberta Truman. Who, I do believe, is your sister, Reverend.”

“Are you suggesting,” the reverend begins, his hands now claws scraping viciously along the seams of his pants. “That —”

“She’s suggesting that we give the kid the money,” Plato says. “And I agree. All in favor.”

There are five ayes to the reverend’s single nay.

And the night doesn’t get any better for him.

“It is not the committee’s place to audit the library’s young adult fiction for unsuitable material, Reverend,” Gerda says coldly.

(All of those in favor of an audit, one. Those against, five.)

“It’s the middle school winter dance,” Ms. Alton says. “I think nine thirty is a perfectly reasonable time for it to end.”

(All those in favor of an eight o’clock finish, one. Those against, five.)

“I’m just saying that science fiction is not actually the devil’s work and I see no reason to picket the movie theatre on Thursday for showing a double bill of _The Fly_ and _The Fog_ ,” Plato reasons. “Also, some of us are busy on Thursday nights.”

“Doing what exactly?” the reverend demands.

“Yogalates,” Plato says cheerfully. “My back has never felt better.”

“Good for my hips, too,” Ms. Alton adds.

Plato snorts. “ _Your_ hips. I think you’re much more interested in Jonny’s hips.”

Ms. Alton blushes, her eyes darting around guiltily. “He does wear short shorts,” she mutters in her defence. 

(All those in favor of a picket outside the movie theatre, one. Those against, five.)

Patrick almost sympathises with the reverend. The cracks in his armor are growing to crater size, and underneath it is nothing more that a bitter, scared old man. The curtain has been truly pulled from the Wizard of Oz.

“Right,” Gerda says. “Any other business?”

There isn’t, and Patrick is in his car ten minutes later, singing along loudly to his eighties ballads CD. He turns to pass the gables when something catches his eye. It’s like a quick flicker of orange, right where the Mourns is. He’d back up, but he’s on a bend, so he drives on until he gets to a clearing that gives him an unobstructed view of Jonny’s place. 

“What the…” he mutters, silencing the engine and Cyndi Lauper. His first thought is that there’s a fire, but his heart settles when he hops from the car; the downwind carries no smoke or sound towards him, just the crisp smell of winter. 

There is, however, something glowing on Jonny’s land, and Jonny isn’t home, because he’s in Patrick’s home with the girls. Patrick thinks about calling him, even goes so far as to fish his phone out of his pocket. His fingers stop just as he pulls up the number - he really doesn’t want to alarm anybody, and it’s likely just some weirdass mumbo-jumbo treatment that Jonny’s put on the soil himself. Some free range organic lava shit, or something. 

He’ll mention it to Jonny when he gets back to the house, he decides, folding himself back into the cruiser. It’s probably nothing. And he really wants to go home.

Or, it might be something. It might be something toxic, maybe something long buried that Jonny has disturbed with the rotovator. It might be a chemical reaction, or a new spill, or —

“Fuck,” Patrick hisses, and turns back in the way of the Mourns.

The front of the house is dark when he gets there, and he rummages around in the glove compartment for the flashlight before stepping out onto the gravel. 

He’s not utterly surprised to find more darkness around the back, and he’s not sure if he’s pissed or relieved. The beams from the flashlight dance as he waves it around the land, showing up trenches and small hills of displaced earth. To the left is a tractor with a rotavator blade attached to the front, and on the right are the window boxes that the girls had helped Jonny fill the day after Halloween. Behind them, the penned chickens are clucking and trilling quietly. 

There’s nothing unusual here, certainly nothing orange. 

Patrick walks carefully down the path, the stones crunching under his feet as he follows the track all the way to the back of the garden where the big and dead looking tree is now bigger and not so dead looking. There are new green shoots that look days away from becoming leaves, and clusters of tiny red berries in tight piles on the branches. It doesn’t look anything like the firewood that Patrick had seen a couple of weeks ago. He flashes the light at the base of the trunk, where there are mounds of vegetable peelings, egg shells, and flower clippings.

Presents, Patrick supposes. He’s leaning in when a sudden noise makes him go perfectly still. It’s a low humming sound that seems to be coming from the tree. He waits for it to stop; maybe it’s from an animal or bird that he’s disturbed. Maybe one of the chickens escaped from the coop. But it doesn’t stop, and it doesn’t sound like any creature Patrick knows. It’s a soft drone, steady and continuous, a little like the dull hum of the refrigerator fan. He takes a cautious step forward and almost jumps right out of his skin when his cell rings.

“Jesus, fuck,” he hisses, thoroughly spooked. He fumbles into his pocket and lifts the phone to his ear without checking the screen. “Kane.”

“Hey,” Jonny says, and it’s kind of stupid how just hearing that one word is a balm to Patrick’s frayed nerves. “What are you doing?”

Patrick blows out a breath, and flattens a palm against his racing heart. “I’m up at the Mourns. Thought there was a fire.”

“You’re at the Mourns? You’re going to be filthy,” Jonny scolds. “It rained for most of the afternoon.”

“Yeah,” Patrick agrees ruefully, looking down at his muddied boots and pant hems.

“Come home,” Jonny orders, and Patrick is already walking back down the track. Going home sounds like a very good idea. “The girls said that if you’re not here in the next ten minutes, they’re going to eat your time of the month sandwich without you.”

“Man,” Patrick complains. He’s going to have to start making two of those things.

When he hangs up, he looks around once more, but the Mourns is silent and dark again.

*****

“Dad. Dad. DAAAAAAAADDD!!”

Patrick bolts up on the bed, eyes flying open. “Shit,” he hisses, fumbling for the switch on the lamp. He blinks the twins into the focus, both of them standing at the foot of the bed, smiling giddily.

“What the…” he says. His retinas feel like they’re on fire. “What? Girls, what’s wrong?”

“Happy birthday, Dad,” is the answer. Patrick stares in disbelief as his daughters begin dancing around his bedroom, twirling and throwing their arms up in the air.

“You’re kidding me.” He knows they aren’t, though. They love birthdays, anybody’s birthday. Family, friends, dolls, teddy bears. Eugene Fitzherbert gets seven parties every year. 

Patrick turns to the clock that isn’t there anymore, pretty sure that it’s the middle of the night. 

“No, it’s morning,” Esmé says. “And you have to open your presents. We got you thirty-one presents because you’re thirty-one.” She bends down to pick up a bag from the bottom of the bed, and Beth follows with another. They giggle in delight as they shake the contents onto Patrick’s comforter, more or less drowning it under a carpet of purple and yellow homemade wrapping paper.

“Wow,” Patrick says, truly stunned, and not yet fully awake.

“We’ll start with the yellow presents,” Beth decides, kneeing her way through the pile and plonking herself on Patrick’s thigh. “Open this one first.” 

“Hold on,” Patrick says, because apparently this is happening. He sits up a little more, stuffing a couple of pillows behind his back, and waves his hand about grandly. “Let the gifting commence.”

“This one,” Beth repeats, shaking the oblong package in his face.

Patrick takes it and unwraps it slowly, biting his lips when the girls squirm impatiently. “Oh, wow. Chocolate frogs. Your... I mean, _my_ favorite.”

“There’s three of them, Dad,” Beth says, meaningfully. “ _Three_ of them.”

“I can see that,” Patrick nods. “I could have one today, and one tomorrow, and one the next day.”

There’s about ten seconds of silence before Esmé holds her hands up in a hear-me-out gesture. “Or you could share them. Just sayin’”

The second present is a bag of walnuts, and the third is a pack of flower seeds. “Did you two leave anything for Jonny’s paying customers?” Patrick asks, when he’s opened the rest, looking down at the pile of candles, books, natural sponges, and vegetable planters. “Jonny _gave_ you this stuff, right?”

“We earned it,” Beth says. “We did our prentice and assistant jobs, and Jonny let us pick presents for our pay.”

“Oh,” Patrick says, a sudden lump in his throat. “You mean, you guys worked just to get me all this stuff?”

“Yes,” Esmé answers. “And now it’s time for the purple presents, which are the ones we made.” 

Patrick begins unwrapping batch two, which includes a weird looking block of soap, a pasta pen holder, a bookmark, a friendship bracelet, a bathbomb, toothpaste, and a string picture of Prince Patrick. There are also a few things that Patrick neither knows the name of, or use for. But the last catches his breath. 

It’s a seashell-framed black and white photograph of the girls, Eugene Fitzherbert and Belladonna, all of them sacked out on the beanbags in Jonny’s library. Everything is blurred, except the humans and animals. None of them are looking at the camera, or even aware of the photographer. It’s the sweetest little moment, captured forever.

“Okay, this is the best present I’ve ever got,” Patrick says quietly. “And I think it’s hugs time.”

“After the coupons,” Beth says.

“Coupons,” Patrick repeats, raising his eyebrows. “Interesting.”

“Awesome,” Beth corrects, digging into the pocket of her dressing gown and pulling out the first piece of card. She hands it over with great solemnity. 

Patrick bites back a smile as he reads it. “ _A No Complaining Day_. I’ve changed my mind. This is actually the best present I’ve ever got.” He flips the card over and snorts when he reads the terms and conditions on the back. _Not valid on Mondays._ “Noted.”

There are also vouchers for feeding the dog, the girls making their own lunch, and other chores that Patrick suspects will mean more work for him than less. But the thought behind each promise squeezes his chest painfully, as does the care that has been taken with each one. The writing and the cutting, while not perfect, are definitely the girls’ best efforts.

“Now the hugs,” Esmé declares, and there’s a flurry of limbs as they set upon Patrick, squeezing him tight and laughing as he smothers them with kisses. It’s not the worst, he thinks, being thirty-one, even if he does have to get up and go to work. “Okay, so what do we want for breakfast?” he asks, reaching under the pillow for his phone. “How about…” Patrick stops and stares at the screen in disbelief. “Hellions,” he says slowly. “It’s four a.m.” 

The girls nod, like this news doesn’t surprise them.

“But… but you said it was morning time.” 

“Yes, Dad,” Esmé says patiently, like he’s the child. “It’s four in the morning.”

“Oh my god,” Patrick says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Oh my dear god. I think I’m going to cry.” He means it, too.

The twins turn to giggle at each other, which has always been their way of letting Patrick know they know something he doesn’t — a not-so-secret secret code.

“Jonny said you would probably say that, so he gave us this,” Beth says, reaching into her pocket for the last piece of card. Patrick takes it, grumbling about how it had better be a coupon for a child-free vacation. 

_This entitles the reader to demand that his children get back into bed and sleep for at least two more hours. Happy Birthday! (also, check the doorstep when you wake up. Again. :))_

“Did Jonny know you were going to wake me up at this hour?” Patrick asks, waving the slip.

“He knew we were excited about your birthday,” Esmé says vaguely. “He helped us get everything ready.”

“And he helped with the wrapping when we got tired,” Beth says. “And he helped with the candle we made. And he helped us to hide everything.”

“Jonny’s very helpful, Dad,” Esmé surmises.

“And yet,” Patrick says, beginning to gently shove the gifts onto the floor. “Not here to help with the clean up.” It’s not a real complaint, doesn’t even sound like it might be one. He’s more than a little overwhelmed by Jonny’s part in this collaborative project. Patrick knows his kids - loves his kids - but he knows their big ideas and their best intentions, and how quickly they hop from one shiny thing to another. Jonny must have picked up some serious slack.

“Come on. I’m cashing this in right now,” he says, tugging the comforter free. The girls scramble around to get under it with him because whose bed wasn’t specified on the coupon, and Patrick’s not wasting precious sleep minutes on an argument he’s going to lose.

“Five seconds until light’s out,” he warns, and turns off the lamp after only two. The girls squeal and grumble a little, but they’re out less than a minute later. Patrick’s about twenty seconds behind them.

*****

A few hours later, he swears quietly when he stands on at least two of his many gifts after he climbs out of bed. But he manages to escape the room without waking the girls, and keeps his footsteps light as he pads down the stairs. When he’s pulling the front door open, he almost feels silly and fanciful; it six thirty, and pretty unlikely that Jonny would be making gift drops in the total darkness. Check your doorstep could mean —

There’s a huge coffee and a frosted donut on the step; one boiling hot, the other freshly baked. Patrick stares into the black morning when he picks them up, but there’s no sign of any living creature, certainly not one over six feet tall. 

“Weird,” he mumbles, taking a last long look before hip-checking the door closed. He takes his newest gifts into the kitchen, and gives himself his own birthday present, fifteen minutes of peace and quiet before he wakes his daughters.

Jonny wishes him happy birthday in person when Patrick calls into _Bell, Book, and Candle_ that evening.

“Thanks,” Patrick says. He stomps his frozen feet on the ground and blows warm breath into his cupped hands. “And while I’m at it, thanks for everything else, too. It couldn’t have been easy helping the girls get all those presents together.”

“The worst bit was colouring in the wrapping paper,” Jonny says, lips twisting to the side. “Apparently, I was doing it wrong.”

“You did something wrong?” Patrick mock-gasps, eyes wide. “I didn’t think you were capable of it. According to the girls, you’re like, I don’t know, the prince of princes. The _princiest_ prince of princes.”

Jonny smiles at him from across the counter. “From the man who hung the moon in the sky. You have no idea of how many times I hear, ‘but Jonny, our dad does it this way, but Jonny, our dad always says this, but Jonny, our dad would never, but Jonny, our dad walks on water.’”

“Yeah?” Patrick grins, pleased. He’s never really thought about how the girls talk about him to other people, but he’s happy to have been given such a good review.

“Yeah,” Jonny says, laughing at Patrick’s face. “So, how was your day?”

“Weird,” Patrick answers. He rests his elbows on the counter and leans in. “Like, unbelievably weird, because it appears that everyone in town knows that it’s my birthday, which isn’t even the weird part. The weird part is that they cared. People wished me a happy birthday, people gave me stuff. Nance even gave me a tin of marron glacé. I don’t even know what marron glacé is… are? And, Mika wouldn’t charge me for my car wash today, which, I mean, this is the guy that once syphoned a dollar’s worth of gas back out of a customer’s tank because they were short.” He stops and shrugs at an amused Jonny. “My birthday is a fucking Christmas miracle, Jonathan.” 

Jonny claps loudly. “God bless us, everyone!” 

“It was a great day,” Patrick says. “Well except for the part where a guy crashed his truck into the low rise bridge just outside town. He clearly didn’t get the be-nice-to-Patrick memo. Three hours it took to get him free again. My hands are so frozen they might just snap off.” He holds them up, waving almost ruefully. “My kingdom for a pair of gloves.”

Jonny smiles sympathetically. “So, what else are you doing to celebrate?”

“All I want to do right now is go home, get the girls fed and into bed, and I’m not even going to lie, but I’m hoping Vinnie has already got a headstart on that. Then I’m going to defrost in the shower and reheat some of the birthday pancakes Duncs got Elmer to make for me.” Patrick pulls a face as soon as he stops speaking. “Man, that sounds kinda pathetic, but I'm so tired that this is all I truly want to do.” He remembers when birthdays were a five day event, and none of them particularly sober. “I used to be fun,” he tells Jonny. “I promise.”

“Maybe you could do something fun this weekend,” Jonny says, and there’s a suggestive undercurrent there that makes Patrick’s heart skip a little. 

“Maybe,” he says, hoping that’s going to followed up with a specific suggestion. But Jonny doesn’t say anything else and it gets pretty awkward very quickly, both of them looking at each other like they’re waiting.

“Well,” Patrick says to break the silence.

“So,” Jonny says, at exactly the same time. “Beth left her scarf here yesterday.” He reaches under the counter and takes out a paper bag that he hands to Patrick.

Patrick takes it, and looks around as if he might find something to say on the walls and shelves of the store. “I should probably get going.” 

“Chestnuts,” Jonny says.

“Bless you?”

“Marron glacé,” Jonny says, smiling again. “They’re candied chestnuts.”

“Oh. And, ew.”

The girls are already asleep when he gets in, and Vinnie’s in a hurry to get back to his books, so Patrick hits the shower and is feeling a good deal warmer by the time he gets downstairs again. He pops the pancakes into the microwave, and shakes Beth’s scarf from the bag. A smaller package falls out with it, wrapped in cloth, tied with twine. Patrick squints to read the tiny tag made from cardboard - _To Patrick, from J. Happy Birthday!_

He laughs when he opens it, uncovering a pair of gloves, hand-knit, and judging by the very bright pattern, most likely the work of Ms. Alton. He slips his hands into them, sighing softly when his fingers are hugged by the soft fleece lining.

“That is so freaky,” Patrick mutters to himself, definitely feeling a whole lot better about everything.

*****

“We can’t put all the fruit together yet, Dad,” Beth says just as Patrick is about to toss the sliced oranges into the bowl with the strawberries.

“I think putting the fruit all together is pretty much the point of a fruit salad,” Patrick replies. It’s their contribution to the family Thanksgiving dinner, and while Jonny had been kind enough to provide them with enough fruit to feed the whole of Buffalo, he hadn’t hung around to cut it all up.

“But Jonny says that putting some fruits together too soon will make them mushy and taste like each other,” Beth says. Her tone suggests that Patrick really should know this.

Patrick looks around at all the chopped fruit, “So, what’s the plan?”

“Put it in separate containers, Dad,” Beth answers with a long suffering sigh. “That’s why Jonny gave us all these tupperwares.” She jerks her head at a pile of boxes and goes back to cutting up the… Patrick’s not even sure what. 

“What is that?”

“It’s loquat. It tastes a little bit like peaches and a little bit like mangos and a little bit like oranges. It comes from China, and the pips have poison in them. But don’t worry, Dad, lots of fruits have poison pips, like apples and cherries. Jonny says it’s safe if you don’t bite them or swallow too many of them.”

Patrick smiles at her entirely serious face. “Hey,” he teases. “Remember when you thought parsnips were yellow carrots?”

“That was when I was six,” Beth replies, tossing her hair haughtily over her shoulder. “I’m six and four months now. I’m not a baby anymore.” 

“Even when you’re sixty and four months, you’ll still be my baby,” Patrick says, crossing the floor to join her at the table. He drops a quick kiss on her scrunched up nose. “So, I’ll put the strawberries in this container, and the oranges in this container. And then what?”

Beth purses her lips while she decides on his next mission. “I guess you could do the plums. They’re already very ripe. Jonny says that ethylene makes the fruit get ripe. And he says that you have to keep the lots of ethylene fruits away from the other fruits.”

“Jonny certainly says a lot of things,” Patrick muses, reaching for the basket of purple plums.

“Yes,” Beth agrees as she makes a start on another loquat. “He says that Eugene Fitzherbert can probably see better than us but he can’t see all the colours. And he says that flies hum in the key of F, like our recorders, and that people can’t hum when they hold their noses.” 

Patrick immediately tests that theory, making Beth giggle while he tries to blow sound from his sealed lips and nose. “Told you,” she sing songs when he holds his hands up in defeat.

“Yeah, yeah. I get it. Jonny’s awesome.”

“That’s what he says about you,” Beth says, matter of fact, and for a moment Patrick’s mind blanks. He feels a sudden urge to blurt — _What? When did he say this? Tell me exactly what he said. Exactly. Leave nothing out. What was the context? Do you think he was being serious? What else did he say? Wanna go for a milkshake and you can tell me if he likes-me likes-me?_

“I’ve just remembered something else Jonny says,” is what he does say, stepping closer to her.

She looks up, head tilted, and laughs loudly when he scoops her up. “He said,” Patrick says, nuzzling her temple. “That you have to give me the biggest hug you have.”

She laughs again, but tightens her arms around him. “It’s a pity that Jonny can’t come to Thanksgiving with us.”

“Yeah,” Patrick agrees. “But Maud asked him first.” Patrick isn’t even fully sure how he feels about that. Surprised, certainly — not that Jonny accepted, but that Maud offered. Maybe he was a little disappointed, but that passed quickly. His family would be far too excited by Patrick bringing a guest, and while Jonny copes well with two adoring fans, he might be a little overwhelmed by the attentions of the Kane collective, which numbered eighteen at last count. And still growing.

Maybe next year.

“Right,” he says, giving Beth one last squeeze. “I’m going to see where your sister is and why she isn’t helping. No knives while I’m gone.”

He finds his other daughter upstairs in her room. She’s lying on the ground, hands resting palms up, legs relaxed, feet slightly turned out. Her chest rises and falls as she takes deep breaths that are held and released rhythmically.

Patrick clears his throat quietly and bites back a smile when her eyes flutter.

“Go away, Dad,” she whispers. “I’m meditating.”

“Can I meditate, too?” he asks. “Looks like fun.”

One eye opens and regards him skeptically. “You’re bad at being quiet,” Esmé tells him.

“I won’t say a word,” Patrick promises, lying down beside her and laughing silently when she huffs and moves over a little. He mirrors her pose and closes his eyes. “What now?” he asks.

“Breathe and be quiet,” Esmé answers, impatient.

Patrick gives it a try, following the pattern of her breathing. He’s thinking that he might have this down when a smaller knee taps against his. “Dad! You’re too loud.”

He turns his head to find her glaring at him. “Sorry,” he whispers. “I’m new to this.”

Her look changes to one that warns him he’s on thin ice. “You’re ruining my visualizing,” she says.

“I thought we were meditating?”

“Dad.” There’s a long pause, which Patrick suspects is the build up to him getting kicked out of the room for real. But when Esmé speaks again, her tone is softer, like she’s reminded herself to stay calm. “Visualizing is meditating. Jonny helped me learn how to do it, and now I do it everyday. It helps me when I’m stressed.”

He hates hearing that word from her mouth, hates that she knows it, that she can use it in a correct context, which in this case is her actual life. “Oh, like that…” What did Jonny call it? Mindfulness? “Does it help?” He already suspects that it might, given that school continues to be a fraught free zone.

She nods, but doesn’t turn away, doesn’t close her eyes again. Patrick looks back at her, feeling his stomach twist at the idea of Jonny fixing something for her that he couldn’t. “And do you talk to Jonny about what makes you stressed?”

She takes her time answering. “Jonny always tells me that I can talk to you about anything.”

“You can,” he says softly. “You can tell me anything.”

She blinks at him almost lazily for another long minute. “Can I tell you what I visualize? I’ve never told anyone else.”

“Sure,” Patrick says, trying not to get too excited about this rare sharing moment in case his enthusiasm frightens it away. It feels fragile, ready to bolt.

“Do you remember when we went to the real nice hotel in Florida? And you got me the floatie for the swimming pool, and it looked like a cell phone with numbers and everything?” 

It had been a gift for the girls’ fifth birthday, a week in Orlando paid for by Patrick’s parents and sisters. There had been a lot of highlights; for Patrick it was getting out of Eerie Falls for a bit, for Beth it was breakfast with Minnie Mouse, and for Esmé it was the floatie that she slept on, in and out of the water.

“I think about being there again,” Esmé continues. “I’m floating in the hotel pool. I have my sunglasses on, and I’m thinking about things, all the stressful things. I collect them all together in my head, and then I throw them up into the air. Then they fall back down again because of gravity, and they land in the water, and the water keeps them. It won’t let any of them back out. So then I’m safe on my floatie. I’m on top of all the bad thoughts and floating away from them. And I think about nice things, like what makes me happy. Like when we go walking with Eugene Fitzherbert or when it snows or when we watch cats on the iPad.”

Patrick stares up at the ceiling. “And you’re not worried anymore?” He hears her head shake in response, her hair dragging on the carpet. “Sounds cool. Can I share your floatie?” 

“Get your own,” she says, and giggles.

Man, she is such his child. “Fine,” Patrick huffs. “I will. I’ll get the best floatie in the world. It’ll be in the shape of a boat, and there’ll be a holder for drinks and a little place to put snacks. I’ll even get one of those people to paddle it for me, like what do you call it, a gondola —”

“Dad!”

“Sorry,” he says, insincerely. But he settles back and tries to make his own head go quiet. There could be something in this, even if it’s just a few minutes to lie on the floor next to his relaxed daughter. It’s a bit scratchy though. He should probably get a new carpet for this room. This one has been here since they moved in, and it’s become rough and flat. The problem will be getting the girls to agree on a colour; Esmé will want something busy and bright, Beth will prefer something floofy and pastel. He wonders how Beth is doing downstairs. She knows not to touch the knives when he’s not there. Not that the knives are very sharp. They’re probably older than the carpet. Maybe he should - 

“Oh my god, Dad,” Esmé says. “Your head is so noisy!”

“Going,” Patrick agrees, pushing himself up off the floor with a heavy grunt.

*****

Thanksgiving is as lively and loud as it is every year, and Patrick spends most of the afternoon catching up with extended family, while trying to make his one beer last for the whole game. He’s down to the dregs when Donna calls everyone to a table that is buckling under the weight of enough food to feed a not so small army. There are cheers and whistles as everyone scrambles for a chair, Patrick’s dad taking the one at the top of the table. He gleefully sharpens the knife that is to make its way through two turkeys.

Patrick sits between the girls, and they pass around the side dishes of mashed potato, stuffing, sprouts, green beans, canned corn, and candied yams. Aunt Suz has also brought along two types of gravy, and a very colorful looking cranberry sauce. Everything is topped with mounds of slightly hacked turkey.

“Before we begin, a toast to the cooks,” Tiki says, raising a glass.

All other glasses are lifted and sipped from, and there’s a little amiable bickering over who exactly did what and who exactly sloped off to watch a bit of the game. 

“And a salute to absent friends,” Tiki adds, sobering the banter somewhat.

“Absent friends,” is chorused around the room, drinks lifted and held in the air. It’s always a solemn moment, but Patrick refuses to feel anything but grateful when he thinks of afternoon naps with his grandpa, and stealing chunks of grandma’s fudge, and listening to Mel laugh wildly at something inappropriate.

Before there was the worst of times, there was the best of times.

“One last thing,” Tiki says, his tone firm. “We are each going to say what we are thankful for, but given that there are nineteen people at this table, we’re going to be super quick. It would be an absolute sin to allow this bounty to get cold. I’m looking at you, Bethy-Boo.” He winks at her to take the sting from his teasing, and she smiles back at him.

Beth’s thankfuls are epic. She hates leaving anybody out, often feels the need to name every living creature she is grateful for, right down to the frogs that were living in the backyard. One time, she had to be cut off after seven minutes, and she hadn’t been best pleased.

As the youngest, Esmé gets to start. “I’m thankful for my sister and my dad and my family and Eugene Fitzherbert and Belladonna and Vinnie and Jonny. That’s all.”

Beth is next. “I’m thankful for everyone and everything and everyone and Esmé and Dad and Jonny. And everyone.” She looks at Patrick. “Was that okay, Dad?”

“That was perfect,” Patrick answers, bending to kiss her hair. “You covered it all. And it’s my turn now, so I would just like to say that I’m thankful for this great day, for this lovely food, and for everyone at this table, especially my amazing children.” He nods at Jacqui, and she’s just opening her mouth to speak when a distressed sound silences the room.

“What?” Patrick says, looking at his scandalized daughters. “I mentioned you two. I said ‘my children’. You do know that my children are you guys?”

Esmé blinks betrayed eyes at him. “But you didn’t say that you’re thankful for Jonny.”

“Dad!” Beth gasps, her dismayed face asking how could he. “You have to say thanks for Jonny.”

“Oh jeez,” Patrick mutters. All eyes are on him, narrowed and interested, and accompanied by smirky smiles. It’s very possible that this isn’t the first time the twins have mentioned Jonny today. Patrick can feel the flush begin at the back of his neck, spreading until it disappears into his hairline, and if he can feel it, everyone else can probably see it. Seriously, he hasn’t been this embarrassed at Thanksgiving since Erica announced his crush on James the flutist to the entire table. “I’m thankful for Jonny,” he adds with as much dignity as he can muster. Which is to say, none whatsoever.

“Well,” Jacqui says, after leaving the silence undisturbed for a few seconds. “I’m very thankful for that entertainment. I’m also thankful for everyone seated here today, for my friends and colleagues. And, of course, for Jonny.”

Beth and Esmé nod solemnly, like it’s Jonny’s due to be thanked by everyone at the table. Which he is. Mark, Jess’s boyfriend, is very grateful for the Buffalo Bills and Jonny. Aunt Pol is thankful for her new hip and Jonny. Cousin Steve is blessed with the success of his new bike shop, and Jonny.

“Yeah, yeah,” Patrick grumbles, but it’s good natured, much like the grins and waggling eyebrows that are being hurled at him. “I’m just thankful that’s over. Let’s eat.”

Later, Jess corners him in the kitchen as he loads the dishwasher. “So,” she says, resting a hip against the counter.

“So, you were right,” he says immediately, just to get this conversation over and out of the way. “I have something. I don’t know if it’ll be everything. But Jonny and I are good again, and nothing else is new.”

“That is,” she says, pointing at Patrick’s face.

“What?” Patrick asks, lifting his hands to touch his cheeks.

“That dumb grin,” Jess laughs. “We haven’t seen that in a while.”

Patrick rolls his eyes. "Hellions," he hollers. "Aunt Jessica would love to hear you playing _Jingle Bells_ again."

*****

The thing about Jonny being so busy is that Patrick is significantly less busy. It feels suspiciously like there might be a correlation.

“Do you hear that?” Patrick asks Hartzy, gesturing around what passes for the station’s bullpen - a smattering of six desks and a vending machine.

Hartzy looks up from his paperwork and pulls a pen from between his teeth. “What?” he says, cocking his head. “I don’t hear anything.”

“Exactly,” Patrick says, sighing in satisfaction as he kicks his feet up onto his table. “No bitching, no whining, no grumbling. No ‘her dog pissed on my lawn’ or ‘his car is too loud’ or ‘those kids are having fun’. There hasn’t been one single stupid complaint all day.”

Hartzy rolls his shoulders, his face thoughtful. “It’s been pretty quiet for a while now. Hey, you want to hear something weird?”

“Absolutely not,” Patrick says firmly.

“So, you know how it’s garbage collection today, which means that Mark Lahey and Lucy Dixon will have been getting into it over who leaves whose trash cans on whose part of the sidewalk?”

“Stop talking, Hartzy.”

“No,” Hartzy says insistently. “I drove by on my way in, thinking I might be able to head it off before it starts. And guess what?”

“I don’t want to know.”

“You really do. Mark was only helping Lucy carry her garbage out, _and_ they were having a very pleasant conversation about the weather.”

“Really?” 

Hartzy nods thoughtfully. “There’s something strange afoot,” he says in a bizarre accent and then laughs at himself. He reaches for another cookie to dunk in his coffee. “But I’m okay with it.”

Patrick frowns, jolted a little by someone else recognizing all the recent strangeness. “You noticed that, too?” he says, just as his cells buzzes near his feet. He sits up to answer it. “Vinnie?”

“Firstly, everyone is fine,” Vinnie says, and Patrick is already grabbing his keys and hightailing it for the door.

“Tell me,” he says, careful to keep his tone measured.

“Eugene Fitzherbert got hit by a car,” Vinnie says. “We were two minutes away from your house when he dropped his tennis ball. It rolled onto the road, and he went after it.”

Patrick unlocks the door of the cruiser, and slides into the seat. “The girls?”

Vinnie sighs. “They’re fine.” He sighs again. “I mean, they saw what happened but they’re okay now. Jonny is here with them.”

“Jonny? How did he get there?”

“I don’t even know… Esmé was screaming for him, and he was just around the corner. I think. I don’t really know. It was pretty crazy.”

“And the driver of the car?”

“Sheriff?”

“Yeah,” Patrick shouts. “I’m pulling out of the yard. You’re on speaker. The driver of the car, Vinnie?”

“She’s fine,” Vinnie answers. “She was the only occupant. Already called a tow service, and I think that’s them pulling up now.”

“She a local?”

“No, heading west. She missed the loop.” 

Patrick takes a deep breath. With all the humans accounted for, he asks, “The dog?”

Vinnie huffs out a disbelieving laugh. “Alive, amazingly. He didn’t move for about five minutes, but Jonny says he was just in shock.”

“Where is he? Is he lying on the road?” Patrick asks, playing a little risk with a mostly red light.

“No, Jonny lifted him into the back of his van. He’s conscious, a bit quiet, but the girls are petting him and he’s not complaining.”

“Okay. I’m almost there.”

A minute later, he’s at the corner of his street, pulling up against the sidewalk. The lights of the tow truck are attracting quite an audience, and Vinnie is helping the guy with the chains and hooks. Patrick heads straight for Jonny’s van, the back doors wide open.

“Hey,” he says softly, and he barely has time to lift his arms before Esmé comes crashing into them. 

“Dad,” she howls, wiping tears and snot into his neck. “It’s my fault. I let go of his leash.”

“Baby,” he murmurs helplessly, rubbing her back. “It’s okay.”

Jonny smiles weakly at him from where he’s sitting with Beth on the floor of the van, both of them gently petting the dog.

“Beth?” Patrick says. “How are you doing there?”

Beth looks up at him with watery eyes that break his heart. “The car hit Eugene Fitzherbert, Dad,” she says miserably, her hands light as they stroke down the dog’s coat. “And I love him.”

“I know you do, sweetheart,” Patrick says quietly. “I think I might take him to see the vet, just to make sure that he’s not hurt.”

Eugene Fitzherbert lifts his head when he hears that, and gives Patrick a look that almost says he knows what going to the vet means. It’s highly unimpressed, and settles Patrick’s swirling stomach a little.

“Good idea,” Jonny says, sliding out the doors. “Keys are in the ignition. I’ll take the girls.”

Esmé goes to him reluctantly, and Beth knees her way to the door to take Jonny’s other arm.

“I should probably go over and see how the driver is before I go,” Patrick sighs, but Jonny shakes his head.

“Just go. It’s fine. Duncs is here.”

“Where?” Patrick wonders, craning his head just in time to see another cruiser pull up.

“Go,” Jonny insists as Duncs steps out of the car.

To argue would waste more time than he has, so Patrick leans over to kiss the girls’ heads. It would be so easy, he thinks suddenly, to lean up and kiss Jonny, too. Snatch a little comfort for himself.

But he steps away before he embarrasses just about everybody.

***** 

Kevin Wains puts his stethoscope down and shrugs at Patrick. “He’s fine.”

Patrick can’t quite believe it himself. When they had arrived, Eugene Fitzherbert had hopped out of the van, and trotted into the vet’s practice unaided, if a little hesitantly. He sat obediently for his examination, even giving Kevin a hopeful lick as if to ward off any potential shots. “Nothing broken?”

Kevin throws a tennis ball across the room, and Eugene Fitzherbert bounds across after it, sniffing and pawing, and slobbering happily all over his prize. “That answer your question?”

Patrick supposes it does. “What about internal bleeding, that kind of thing?”

“His eyes are clear, his pulse is good, he’s not in any kind of shock, he didn’t flinch where I touched, he’s not protecting any part of his body. I can only do a physical examination here, and you could take him to the clinic in Milton, but I really don’t think it’s necessary. By the sounds of things, he got lucky. That’s a happy ending in my book.”

“I guess I’ll just take him home?”

“I guess,” Kevin agrees, calling Eugene Fitzherbert to him with a whistle for a last once-over. “What’s that?” he says, smelling his hand and then pressing his nose into the dog’s hair. “Can I smell arnica?” He sniffs again. “Hawthorn?”

Patrick shrugs. “Jonny might have put something on him.”

“Ah,” Kevin says, smiling now and scratching under the dog’s chin. “Jonny got to you first, huh, boy? No wonder you were all mended before you got to me.” He looks back up at Patrick. “Good guy, that Jonny. Knows his remedies.”

“Right,” Patrick says uncertainly. He would swear that he remembers Kevin being part of the anti-Jonny committee that gathered outside his store on opening day.

“Cured my nighttime hiccups. Plagued me for years, hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep in as long as I can remember. Everytime I lay down, _hic-hic_. Wears a man down, makes him cranky and mean. Didn’t think anyone could do anything, but Jonny just gave me a drop of this and a drop of that, and I haven’t looked back. Two drops to the back of the throat every bedtime, and I’m out. Of course, the flip side of that was I started to keep my wife awake with my snoring instead. But she went to see Jonny, and he gave her some other drops, and she sleeps right through it now.”

“I see,” Patrick says politely.

“It’s been weeks since she tried to smother me with her pillow.”

Patrick blinks at him. “Right.”

*****

Eugene Fitzherbert sits up front on the way home, chewing softly on his seatbelt.

“Ugh,” Patrick grumbles when he’s unbuckling it again. “You really are gross.”

The dog ruffs, looking over Patrick’s shoulder before leaping to the ground.

“What?” Patrick asks when the dog barks again. “What are you barking at?”

“Me, maybe,” a voice says. It belongs to a kid who steps out from behind the van. He’s tall, athletic looking, and has dark eyes that are regarding Eugene Fitzherbert warily. “Are you Sheriff Kane?”

Patrick nods, and the kid smiles widely, shaking off one of his gloves. “Nick Schmaltz. Good to meet you, Sheriff.”

“You too,” Patrick say automatically, accepting the outstretched hand. It’s cold, and he wonders just how long this Nick has been casing Patrick’s house. The name is familiar, but he just can’t reach from where -

“Your new trainee deputy?” Nick offers. “I was supposed to meet you at five, at the station?”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Patrick gives the hand another shake, squeezing an apology into it. “I’m so sorry -”

The front door opens and the girls come bounding out of the house, squealing so loudly that Nick looks alarmed again.

“My kids,” Patrick explains as Eugene Fitzherbert gets set upon by two tiny terrors. Not that he seems to mind, graciously accepting the bear hugs and kisses with sloppy licks and a tail that might just wag itself right off. “And this is our dog. He had a little accident tonight, and I’m just back from the vet —”

“He’s okay, Dad, right?” Beth shouts. “Is he really better?”

“Healthiest dog in the whole of Eerie Falls,” Patrick assures her, and then winces. “Aw, jeez, hellions. You have no shoes or sweaters on. Come on, inside before we need another doctor.” He turns back to Nick. “You too.”

Nick backs away a little. “Oh, I didn’t mean to intrude… I could just go back to the station —”

“Argue with me inside,” Patrick insists, trotting in after the girls and the dog. “Where it’s warmer. Just please ignore the mess.”

“What mess?” Nick asks, stepping in behind them.

What mess, indeed. The sitting room is warm and bright, the fire crackling, the mantle almost glowing with lit candles that Patrick definitely doesn’t own. Spiced vanilla wafts around in comforting waves, giving the room something that a coffee table magazine would call _ambiance_. The toys that he was too tired to argue with the girls about last night are piled in their boxes, lined up neatly in the corner. Two pairs of small pyjamas that were flung over the sofa are now folded and warming on the radiator. It even looks like someone ran the vacuum around, leaving telltale tracks in the thread.

Nick makes his way to the fire and stands with his back to it, stomping the cold out of his feet. “You have a lovely home, Sheriff.”

Apparently, Patrick does. The door of the kitchen opens just as he’s got his own feet freed from their boots.

“Hi,” Jonny says, a dish towel wrapped around his middle, tucked into the waistband of his pants. He raises a questioning eyebrow at their guest. “Hello.”

Patrick makes the introductions, and then groans when another smell punches him right in the stomach, making his mouth water. “Oh my god,” he mumbles, nodding over Jonny’s head. “What is going on in there?”

“Gumbo,” Jonny answers, smiling. “I made most of it earlier today, so ready in twenty minutes. Which leaves you time enough for a quick shower. Everything good with the patient?”

They all look at Eugene Fitzherbert rolling around the floor with the girls. 

Patrick holds his hands up in a helpless gesture. “Yes? Kevin says he might be a bit bruised, but that’s the worst of the damage.”

“Good,” Jonny nods. “Kevin’s a great vet. You’ll join us for dinner, Nick? Are you okay with shellfish? I haven’t added it yet.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t,” Nick says quickly. His default face seems to be set on ‘startled’. “No. I mean yes. To the shellfish, yes. As in, I’m okay with it. I actually love it. But I’m interrupting your evening, and I didn’t mean to —” He sighs wistfully. “Man, that really does smell amazing.”

“It’ll taste amazing, too,” Patrick promises, already heading for the stairs. “Make yourself at home.” 

He stays in the shower until the water starts to grow tepid, letting the spray beat the stress of the last few hours clean out of him. Showering is typically more functional than therapeutic, especially when the girls are awake, and this is a luxury Patrick would love to get used to. 

“Are you alive in there?” Jonny roars up the stairs eventually, and Patrick smiles as he steps out of the tub. He dries off quickly, and dresses in sweats and a t-shirt that could probably do with an iron, but are definitely clean.

There are even more surprises back in the kitchen. The breakfast dishes are washed and stacked on the drainer, the table is cleared of cereal boxes and on it is a plate of warmed pita bread and a dish of hummus that Nick is chewing his way through while Beth talks to him non stop. 

Esmé is keeping a typical distance, as physically far away from the intruder as possible. All Patrick can see of her are the toes of orange socks from where she’s sitting on the tiles, the dog blanketing her. 

He snags a bit of bread for himself, and muffles an insincere offer of help to Jonny.

“You can sit,” Jonny commands, nodding to a freshly opened bottle of beer, and Patrick doesn’t argue. He’s more than happy to bask in the feeling of being looked after.

“Nick is living with Maud,” Beth tells him when he takes a chair. “He’s from Wisconsin and his real name is Nicholas and he has a brother called Jordan and neither of them like bananas.”

“I’d swear you were a town crier in a past life,” Patrick teases, and then turns to Nick. “You’re really going to live with Maud?”

“Shrimp’s in,” Jonny says before Nick can answer. “About four minutes. Girls, wash your hands.” Beth pushes away from the table, but Esmé just looks around the dog, staring balefully at Nick from under her lashes. Patrick can sense her emotional overcharge, and knows that a meltdown is pretty inevitable. She’s had enough of today already, and having to share what’s left of it with a stranger in her space is really stretching her past her tipping point. She could probably do with a quiet trip on her floatie.

“I don’t want to wash my hands,” she mutters stubbornly.

“You should,” Jonny says mildly. “The hawthorn and bach that you put on Eugene Fitzherbert earlier might still be on your skin. Great for healing, but not great for eating.”

Esmé stares at her hands. “They’re fine,” she decides.

“You’re probably right,” Jonny says agreeably. “As long as you stay away from the shrimp. And the sausage.”

“Why?” she demands, eyes narrowed.

“Hawthorn makes fish and meat taste like vinegar,” Jonny says. Patrick’s pretty sure that’s bullshit but he smiles to himself when Esmé studies her hands some more. 

“I hate vinegar,” she says.

Jonny shrugs. “You should be okay if you just eat the vegetables. You can have extra rice. I’ll give Beth your sausage, and Nick your shrimp. Just to be safe.”

If there was dust on the floor it would have been unsettled with the speed Esmé exits from under Eugene Fitzherbert, and skids out the door. Her feet thump loudly on the stairs as she races for the bathroom.

“Excellent parental manipulation,” Nick laughs, and dives in for more bread. “So, why does everyone kind of look surprised when I tell them that I’m going to be staying with Maud? Should I be worried?”

Patrick gets a little stuck on _parental_.

“Sheriff?”

“No,” Patrick says, shaking his head. “It’s just that Maud doesn’t typically take lodgers. She’s a little sharp with her tongue, and she won’t let you get away with anything. But she’s fair, and she’s a hell of a baker. And according to Jonny, she makes a mean turkey dinner.” It’s funny, but a few weeks ago, he’d have been giving Nick a very different answer, and probably be offering him a sofa until he could sort something else out.

“True story,” Jonny says over his shoulder, and goes back to his saucepan. “Her sweet potato mash is also the best I’ve ever tasted.”

“That’ll do for now,” Nick says easily. “If I get through my probation, I can look longterm.”

That segues them into shop talk, which is mostly a rundown of shift hours, duties, mentoring, and the two most important rules of the station; write everything down and never drink out of Duncs’ mug. 

The girls are back just as Jonny’s dishing up, and now there’s another problem. There are only four chairs at the table, and most of the time the fourth chair is home for clean laundry that hasn’t made its way upstairs yet. And often worn again before that happens. 

It’s been a long time since five chairs were needed, a long time since five people were eating in this kitchen at the same time.

Beth hops up to where she was sitting a few minutes ago, between Patrick and Nick, and Jonny takes the last place.

“I’ve no seat,” Esmé says, and Patrick reaches out for her. Jonny gets there first, lifting her onto his lap. 

“Correction, you have the best seat in the house, m’lady,” he says.

“But it’s squashy,” Esmé complains. “I have no room.” On any other day Patrick would be pinching the bridge of his nose and biting his tongue.

Jonny just lifts her plate and empties it onto his own. “You have now,” he says, reaching back to slide the empty plate into the sink.

Esmé looks down at the giant pile of gumbo. “We’re going to share?”

“So long as you don’t eat all the shrimp,” Jonny warns.

She beams at him like she just might, and then fishes out the biggest prawn, biting into it savagely. “Doesn’t taste like vinegar.”

Jonny grins back at her. “You must have washed your hands extra good.”

“This is amazing,” Nick says, taking another hefty mouthful. “Are you a chef, Jonny?”

“He should be,” Patrick says, humming happily around the party on his tongue. He hopes there’s leftovers. There wouldn’t be a single complaint if this was all he had to eat for the next week.

“I run the store across the street,” Jonny tells Nick.

“That must be pretty convenient for you,” Nick says, and then laughs when a giggling Esmé steals the sausage right off Jonny’s fork.

“Hey,” Jonny mock-growls, making Esmé giggle louder.

“We go to the store after school,” Beth chimes in. “Would you like some water, Nick? We made it ourselves.”

Nick’s brows rise. “You made your own water? That’s impressive.”

“No, it’s easy,” Beth says, leaning in. “First you get the water out of the faucet, and put it into a jug. Then you add ice and mint leaves. And that’s all.”

“Clever,” Nick laughs, and pours himself a glass. “This is very fine dining indeed.”

“I helped make the water,” Esmé blurts, and then presses her back against Jonny’s chest, half shy, half mulish. Jonny rests his chin on her head and tightens his arm around her.

And to continue the theme of meal related realizations, Patrick is completely in love with him. One hundred percent, ass over teakettle, toss in the towel, send in the clowns, give up the ghost, pull up the anchor, stone cold in love with him.

“You okay?” Jonny asks, and Patrick nods while stuffing his mouth as full as possible just to stop himself from smiling his face off, or throwing up. It feels like the lesser of all possible indignities. Also, it would also be foolish to waste any of this culinary heaven, not when it’s giving Patrick’s tastebuds little orgasms of their own.

Nick finishes his plate first, and while he’s having a second helping, the girls leave the table to watch some TV. Patrick gets up and puts some coffee on. The conversation is easy; Nick is personable and chatty, and Patrick has a good gut feeling about him.

Jonny seems to like him, too, telling him about the organic produce he has at the store, because Nick is another health freak who fully appreciates Jonny’s weirdness. 

“Do you grow your own vegetables?”

“Not yet,” Jonny answers. He crosses his ankle over his knee, and cups big hands around his mug. “The soil isn’t great. I’m trying out some new treatments, and if they work, I’ll pass them on to other farmers, see if they can get some agriculture going. Almost all of the land around the town is unutilized or used for animal farming.”

“And animal poisoning,” Patrick adds, sipping his coffee by the sink. “We investigate at least two accusations a month. That’ll keep you busy.”

Nick’s face twists in horror. “Animal poisoning?”

“Cal Shevlin and Dev Reid run the two biggest farms,” Patrick says. “Sheep mostly. Dev tried beef, but that didn’t work out. Before my time here. Meat was no good, couldn’t get buyers for it. So he moved in on Cal’s territory and started sheep farming. Cal was already struggling with poor lambing yield, barely any surviving beyond birth. The only thing Dev achieved was pissing Cal off, which I suspect that was the purpose. Their families have been warring for years. But Dev didn’t do any better by trading cattle for sheep. He had exactly the same problems as Cal. So now there were twice the number of failures, twice the number of lambs dying. Cal came to the conclusion that Dev had been poisoning the animals for years, and Dev pointed the finger right back.”

“Jesus,” Nick says. “Did you test the carcasses?” 

“Sure. No trace of any poisons. We even went as far as having a few autopsied. All deaths were down to natural causes. Weak things, all of them. Underdeveloped digestive systems, undersized vital organs. Probably caused by serious inbreeding.”

“Aren’t there regulations for that?” Nick asks.

“There are. But try to pin either man down for paperwork and certificates, and well. They got lost in fires, they’re in the mail, the dog ate them.” Patrick shrugs. “They deny it, of course. The inbreeding. They’d sooner keep up their ridiculous feud than accept the logical explanation. Both of them are convinced that the other is using some unknown, untraceable poison. Or witchcraft. That’s another favourite around here.”

Nick laughs, gently tapping his fingers on his mug. “So, does that mean that you have to bring in most of your food from outside, even though you have all this land?”

“We bring in all of our food,” Patrick says. “This part of the lake isn’t much use for fishing, and the poultry farm went bust not long after I arrived. I’ve never known this place to be anything but a barren wasteland.” 

Nick pats his stomach. “Sounds like I got lucky with my dinner tonight.”

“My delivery guy brought in supplies this morning,” Jonny says. “But you should eat well. Patrick’s right, Maud is a great baker. And she’s first in most mornings to buy vegetables.”

“They’re popular?”

“They are now,” Jonny says. “I’m sold out before midday.”

“Why don’t you bring more in?” Nick asks.

“Nowhere to store them,” Jonny says. “Especially now as I’m using some of the store for a restorative room. Got a floatation tank, heat lamps, massage area, ARP machines, that kind of thing.”

Patrick has no idea what at least half of those things are, but Nick nods like he does.

“I’ve been talking to Nance Reid - she’s Dev’s sister - about stocking some produce in the minimart she runs,” Jonny continues. “She has space out back, and if we all contribute to the order, it’ll bring delivery costs down, which will keep prices down. And pollution, of course. But it would be great to get the land here to work, have some self-sustainability going on, maybe even sell the surplus on to neighbouring towns.”

Nick drains his mug and sets it down a final time. “Well, I can only hope I’m still around to see it all happen.”

“Eh,” Jonny says, shrugging. “I know your boss. I’ll put in a good word for you.” He winks at Patrick, and Patrick grins back at him. When he looks away, Nick is smiling at both of them, but quickly averts his eyes, like he’s been caught spying on a private moment.

“I should get going before Maud thinks I’m not coming back,” he says, pushing to his feet.

Patrick and Jonny follow him into the living room where the girls are lying either end of the sofa, blinking sleepily at the TV. Their legs are tangled together, and the dog is wedged in behind them, his head on Beth’s hip.

“Goodnight, girls,” Nick says, pulling his coat across his shoulders. 

“Goodnight, Nick,” Beth answers, waving tiredly.

“‘Night,” Esmé mutters, which Patrick will take as a success.

“Lovely to meet you all, and thanks so much for the hospitality and the great food.” Nick holds out a hand to Patrick. “Sheriff, I’ll see you in the morning.” He shakes Jonny’s hand, too. “You guys have a lovely family.”

It’s not the _you guys_ bit that startles Patrick, it’s that Nick is looking right at Jonny when he says it.

“Thanks,” Jonny replies while Patrick is still uncurling his tongue from where it’s stuck in the roof of his mouth. He should probably say something, but all he can manage is a dumb ‘night and an even dumber gawping at the door as it closes behind Nick.

“Right,” he says slowly, and then mentally shakes himself, forces a bit more volume into his voice. “Okay, hellions, bath. Let’s go.”

“Should I go, too?” Jonny asks quietly, probably because Patrick won’t look at him.

“No,” he answers, eyes on the stairs as he starts climbing after her daughters. “You definitely should stay. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

The girls are tired, and don’t say much as the tub fills beyond wanting the purple bubble bath and if they can have their recorders because they don’t want to sing. Patrick fetches them from their dresser. “Just make lots of noise,” he warns, handing them over.

They get started on that immediately, a fanfare of shrillness that follows Patrick as he goes back downstairs. He takes a deep breath on his way into the kitchen. 

Jonny is at the sink, washing the dishes without wearing gloves, the soapy suds clinging to his forearms.

Patrick grabs a cloth and lifts a plate from the drainer. “So,” he says. “Who is this we all?”

“Huh?” Jonny says. He’s looking down at the glass he’s rinsing, but Patrick can see his brow furrow.

“You said _we all_ , when you were telling Nick about your deliveries. You said we all are chipping in for the costs, or something like that. But you only mentioned Nance, and you two are hardly an _all_.”

“Nice detectiving, Sheriff. We all are me, Nance and Elmer, so far.”

“Elmer? He was at the station yesterday, asking about a planning permission application. What’s he up to?”

“He’s thinking about remodelling,” Jonny answers. “We talked about it at Maud’s.”

That’s a lot for Patrick to parse together. “Wait, Elmer was at Maud’s for Thanksgiving, too? Who else was there?” 

“Just us, plus Matty and Plato. Oh, and Nance, of course.”

“Of course,” Patrick murmurs. That is some motley crew, and Patrick suddenly has many, many questions about this dinner, but they’ll have to get in line. “So, this remodelling?”

“Elmer’s going to gut the diner. Extend on, make a kids’ corner, an outside patio, and a take-out counter with a small specialized foods section. Almond and soya dairy alternatives, gluten free products, that kind of thing. Maud is going to rent a few shelves from him for her bakes, and she’s even talking about working there for a couple of hours a week.”

“Is that going to be, like, a viable business?” Patrick asks, lifting the glass that Jonny sets down.

“I seem to remember you having the same concern about my business,” Jonny says mildly.

Almost three months ago, Patrick remembers. When he was Jonny’s only customer. In a weird-ass store that now generates more custom than any other in town.

“You think it’s a bad idea?” Jonny asks when the silence stretches.

Patrick thinks about that for a moment, almost surprised when he realizes that no, it’s probably not a bad idea. “If you asked me last summer, I’d say yes, for sure, absolute failure. But you have this town eating out of the palm of your hand. You made the store work, even when everyone was against you. And now they’re working with you, and with each other, so I guess your odds are even better. You have a knack for making the impossible possible, for drawing people to you, for getting through to them.” Jack, Maud, Nance, Plato, Elmer. 

Patrick himself. His children, Esmé in particular. “Hellions,” Patrick bellows suddenly. “ _Girls_. It’s very quiet.”

“Sorry, Dad,” they yell back, and a duet of recorders pick up again. 

“And this floatation tank,” he says, watching as Jonny scrubs at a casserole dish. “The lamps, and stuff. I’m guessing this is for Elmer, but will anybody else need it? I mean, this is expensive shit, right?”

Jonny’s hands go still in the water. “Are you mad?” he blurts. “Did I overstep?” 

Patrick blinks at him. “Fuming,” he nods. “Like how dare you take such good care of my children for free, and help us all through a pretty shitty evening. I mean, you come into my house and clean up, and cook us all delicious food, and entertain a surprise guest, and you don’t even complain about the racket coming from up there. And look, you’re washing the saucepans now. You…you _fiend_.”

Jonny looks back at him for the first time since Patrick came into the kitchen. “You know what I mean. Don’t pretend you don’t. Nick thinks we’re together, he thinks I live here. That’s what he meant when he said it was convenient that the store was across the street, because he thinks I live here. With you and the girls.” 

Patrick knows. “I know.”

“I wasn’t being creepy, letting him think that, but I didn’t know how to correct him without it being awkward or embarrassing for him.”

“That’s not on you. I could have corrected him, and maybe I was the one being a bit creepy because —” Patrick stops to take a panicked breath, and he’s really going to do this, he’s really going to say — “I liked that he thought that. I like you being here, I like that you look like you belong here. I like how you are with the girls, and how you are with me. I…” He swallows hard and forces himself to keep looking at Jonny while he adds, “I like you. A lot.” 

And because he’s an idiot, “Um, like romantically.”

Jonny’s shocked expression is far from reassuring. Patrick had thought he’d been throwing some serious heart-eyes out there. “You didn’t know that?”

“What would have been my first clue?” Jonny takes his hands out the water and dries them on a nearby rag. “The date I asked you on that you weren’t at all interested in? Or the hints I was dropping about doing something nice for your birthday that you totally ignored?”

“Oh. You were waiting on…” Patrick sighs at his own stupidity. “I was waiting on you to ask me out for my birthday.”

Jonny looks a bit pissed at that, his jaw tightening and brow crinkling. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “Let me refer you back to date number one from a few seconds ago.”

They should have a talk about that night, maybe clue each other into what exactly happened. But later. It’s been a long, difficult day, and there are other things that need resolving now. Patrick hitches up his big boy pants.

“Okay, so I’m going to put this out there. I like you, and I’d like to take you out on a date, anywhere you want to go. We can have moons and blankets and duck, or something completely different, your call. So, if that’s something that you’d like to do, with me, then great. But if it isn’t, then that’s —”

Not great. In the short term, it’s going to be awkward and mortifying, but after that, it’s just going to suck real bad. Especially if he has nobody to blame but himself —

“Idiot,” Jonny says softly, as if he knows what Patrick’s thinking. “Idiot,” he repeats, but he’s smiling and stepping closer, until he’s kissing the indignation right out of Patrick. And then it’s easy to fall into the heat of Jonny’s mouth, the pressure of Jonny’s hands as they smooth their way up his back, and fuck, he forgot. Forgot how much he loved kissing someone he was into, how good it felt to have the weight of another mouth on his, the press of another body against him. Patrick pushes closer, sliding his tongue against Jonny’s, moaning at the shocked thrill it sends through him. He could probably kiss Jonny forever in this quiet -

“Shit,” he gasps and then hollers, “Girls!”

“My ears,” Jonny complains, although he doesn’t stop rubbing his thumbs against the soft skin at Patrick’s waist. He looks a little dazed, which unfortunately might be more to do with the yelling and less with the kissing.

“It’s about to get worse,” Patrick warns, leaning into him, and on cue the shrieking of recorders starts up again. “Total mood killer.”

Jonny laughs, and dips to reach Patrick’s mouth again, but - “Dad,” Beth yells. “We’re getting cold.”

“We have wrinkles,” Esmé hollers.

“And we don’t know any more songs.”

“We played _Jingle Bells_ a hundred times.”

“And Eugene Fitzherbert is drinking the bathwater.”

Patrick bumps his head into Jonny’s chest. “If you had any sense, you’d run for the hills.”

“Not going anywhere,” Jonny says, tightening his arms around Patrick, effectively immobilising him. “Feels like it took me far too long to get here.”

Patrick scoffs, but he’s stupidly pleased and utterly charmed. “You’re too perfect. There has to be catch. I bet you’re crap in bed.”

Jonny’s huff of laughter is hot in Patrick’s ear. “I’ll take that bet,” he whispers, managing to make that the filthiest thing Patrick has ever heard, and when he pulls back, Jonny’s eyes are dark with want, lasering in on Patrick’s tingling lips.

“Oh, Jesus,” Patrick whines, his mouth suddenly dry.

“Daaaaaaaaaad!!!” the girls howl.

Jonny leans in to kiss him again, just a short peck that Patrick wants to protest. “To be continued,” Jonny promises, laughing when Patrick scowls. “Come on.” He pushes Patrick through the living room and out into the hall. “I’m going, girls. See you tomorrow!” 

“Bye, Jonny,” the twins chorus back.

Jonny smiles up the stairs and then back at Patrick. “They’re such great kids,” he says, so sincerely.

“Meh,” Patrick says, pulling a face, and dipping in for a last kiss. “I’m thinking of selling them.” 

*****

“What’s wrong?” Hartzy rasps the following morning when Patrick arrives at his house. He looks like he’s been dragged him from his bed, sleep pants rumpled, hair matted down on one side. “Fuck, should I be at the station?”

“I’m looking for your roommate,” Patrick says.

Hartzy steps aside to let him in. “He’s probably asleep,” he says, closing the door behind Patrick. “Heard him pacing around at all hours. Go on in.” Patrick steps through a door, smiling a little at the bachelor pad feel of the tiny room. The furniture is not much more than two lumpy sofas and a giant TV. There’s an admirable amount of game consoles and other video related paraphernalia scattered around piles and piles of books. Everything is a shade of brown or black, except for the purple lamp without a shade, and a surprisingly healthy looking cactus.

“Hey,” Vinnie says, just as Patrick is yanking his finger away from a savage needle. “I meant to call you last night.”

Patrick looks up; Vinnie seems tired, but not like he just woke up, more like he hasn’t slept. “I should have called you.”

Vinnie shrugs. “Jonny texted. He told me everyone was okay. I just wanted to say sorry, really. You left me in charge of all three of them and, shit —” He stops, knuckling at his eyes. “One minute he was there beside us, and then...” 

“It’s okay,” Patrick says quietly. “That monster can move fast when he wants to, and it could have been a lot worse.”

“For a few minutes I thought it was. Thankfully Jonny was there to save the day.” His words and tone sound measured and deliberate, and Patrick’s not too sure what to take from either.

“It was a stroke of luck that he was nearby.” 

“Luck,” Vinnie echoes, lips twisting in a parody of a smile, as if Patrick’s missed the point. But he doesn’t clarify, so Patrick puts the weirdness down to shock and thesis stress. The guy is probably exhausted.

“Well, with all the excitement, I forgot to pay you,” he says, pulling an envelope from his pocket. 

“Oh, thanks.” Vinnie takes it, eyes widening at the bulk and the weight of it in his hand. “Did you pay me in ones? Not that I really mind, as they’re really all I can afford to spend right now… woah.” He pulls out the cash and stares at it. “I think you made a mistake at the ATM. There must be, shit. There must be a thousand dollars here.”

“Only half is from me and the girls. The rest is a gift from the committee. It’s a combined _thank you for everything_ and _good luck with your paper_ and _please don’t leave me forever_.”

“Wow,” Vinnie says, still eyeing the bills in disbelief. “This is amazing. Completely unnecessary, but amazing.” He looks up at Patrick. “I don’t know what to say.” 

Patrick shrugs, feeling uncomfortable under the weight of so much gratitude. “Come to dinner sometime next week, yeah? Let the girls pick on you for a bit. They’re going to miss that.”

“I thought I might take them bowling in Milton after school today, if that’s okay?” Vinnie says. “I was thinking of a game or two, but now that I’m a man of means, we can hire a lane for a couple of hours. Maybe get some burgers and milkshakes.”

“Sure,” Patrick says. “But don’t tell them you have money. Esmé’s been looking for someone to bankroll her buying a real tiger. Also, they can pay for their own food out of the swearing hush money they’ve been extorting from you.”

Vinnie laughs and follows Patrick to the door just as Hartzy bounds down the stairs. “Holy shit,” he says when he spies the cash in Vinnie’s fist. “Where did you get that from?”

Vinnie nods at Patrick, and Hartzy whistles. 

“Don’t feel unloved, Hartzy, I’ve got something for you, too,” Patrick says, pulling a sheet of paper from his pocket. “Your copy of next week’s schedule. Nick Schmaltz will be shadowing you. Don’t break him.”

“I was hoping for something more abundant and green,” Hartzy complains. “Hey, Vin, you wanna throw all that up in the air and we can roll around in it when it hits the ground? I’ve always wanted to do that.”

Patrick leaves them to it.

*****

He finds himself thinking of Jonny throughout the day, feeling silly when smiles come unbidden and have to be bitten off, when little surges of adrenaline make his pulse speed up, when his stomach feels too full for lunch. He’s too old to be feeling like this, he reminds himself. Too dad, too sheriff, too _jaded_. 

Too gone for any of that to matter, though. He wants to roll in that first flush of something new, something big, something special. He wants to do crushed-up things like request sappy love songs on the local radio station, or change his status on his long neglected facebook to _you should see what I just locked down_ , or ask Jonny to send him a selfie that Patrick can save on his phone as his lockscreen.

But he’s not going to do any of those things, and he’s not going to usurp the girls from their rightful place as utmost importance of his images. He might send a text though. Something witty, but cool. Casual, but interested. Snappy, but teasing.

He mulls over it on the drive up to the wasteland owned by Alfie Griffin, and he still has nothing by the time he gets there. Pulling out his phone, he resigns himself to sending an uninspiring hi.

There’s a message waiting on his screen. **So where are you taking me on our first date?**

Patrick’s fingers are impatient as he scrolls through the rest of the messages Jonny has sent.

**No pressure, but it should be somewhere spectacular.**

**Also, hi.**

**And I hope you’re having a good day.**

“Of course you do,” Patrick mumbles, grinning widely as his fingers fly over the keys. “You sappy fuck.” He wants to send back a text that tells Jonny just how much better his day suddenly got, but he’s keeping a rein on his dignity. 

**Hi. The girls are going out with Vinnie this evening. How about the Bloody Stream? Wanna scandalize the locals?**

Jonny replies in seconds. **Not even a little.**

Patrick quickly types out - **There’s a great place in Milton that does take out? They don’t deliver, but I could go pick it up. We could eat at mine? Let me know and I’ll get back to you later. I’m about to investigate a… wait for it… fishnapping.**

Jonny texts again before Patrick has stepped out of the car. **Sounds dangerous. Should I be worried about you?**

Patrick laughs, more than a little pleased by the idea of Jonny being worried about him. **Do not fear, good citizen. I’m here to fight for truth, and justice, and the American way.**

His phone buzzes almost immediately. **My hero.**

**Oh, yeah?** Patrick shoots back. **And what rewards await your hero when he returns from this most perilous of quests?**

**What would you like?**

Patrick jigs the phone in his fingers for a few long seconds, and decides to take a chance. **Your hero might be in need of some life-affirming sex.** He’s beginning to regret it when there’s nothing but silence a minute later, and he has no choice but to step away from the cruiser and head towards a frantically waving Alfie. He’s about to put his phone back into his pocket when it chimes twice in quick succession.

**This is our first proper date, Patrick.**

**So you’ll get a beer, dinner, and some life-affirming second base action.**

Patrick puts his phone away for sure this time.

He’ll take it.

*****

The fishnapping is upgraded to a fishicide. It takes Patrick some time to convince Alfie that his prize winning goldfish were not stolen for nefarious purposes. 

“I have enemies,” Alfie declares.

Patrick doesn’t doubt it; Alfie is the very definition of curmudgeon. “So do your fish,” he says, lifting a piece of nearby hedge and pointing to the pawprints in the loose soil. “I reckon this was the culprit’s escape route.”

Alfie bends down to examine the ground more carefully. “A cat attack?”

“Probably,” Patrick says with a sympathetic sigh. Most of the sympathy is for himself. “Felis Catus.”

“What’s that then?” Alfie asks, huffing himself upright again. “Mountain lion? Jaguar?”

“Jag —” Patrick begins, and then stops, mouthing the rest of the word. “Um, no. We’re pretty light on jaguars around here. I’m thinking more domestic cat.”

“Those bastards,” Alfie grits, looking around like one might suddenly pounce and attack. “I’ll shoot them if I see them.” He shakes his fist in the air, a warning to any cat that might be stealthily casing the joint.

Patrick sighs again. What is it with this town and its readiness to immediately reach for a shotgun. It’s nothing short of a miracle that nobody has been killed. “You will not. Your land isn’t fenced, your boundaries aren’t clearly marked. What if you mistake a toddler for a cat?”

Alfie looks confused. “What would a toddler be doing all the way up here?”

That’s a pretty valid point. It would be more likely to see a jaguar than a child anywhere near Alfie’s land. “I don’t know,” Patrick admits. “Maybe it went for a walk with its parents and got lost. But you do enough complaining about your cataracts for me to be very nervous about the idea of you firing a gun at small things that move.”

Alfie shifts uncomfortably, running his hands over his ample belly until one of his fingers catches in the hole of his ratty cardigan. “Got an appointment to see that Jonny fella about these damned things,” he grumbles, pointing to his eyes with his other hand.

“Of course you do,” Patrick replies, not even remotely surprised.

“I guess I’ll just lay some poison, then.”

Patrick shakes his head. “You’re not doing that, either. The wildlife around here is barely holding on, and we really don’t want what’s left of it to commit involuntary mass suicide on your land.”

Alfie’s face gets pretty red, and he licks at his already slippery lips. “I have a right to protect my fish!” he exclaims.

“What fish?” Patrick counters, casting an eye at the empty pond.

“The ones I’m going to have to buy. Hey, do you think the insurance people will pay for replacements?”

“I don’t know,” Patrick says slowly. “Were your fish insured?”

Alfie’s face says no. “So get a net to cover the pond when you buy more,” Patrick says. “Maybe mention it to Jonny when you see him. He might…” Have some cat deterring crystals, know a fish protection chant, get a little visualization going, go into the fish business with you. “...have some ideas.”

On the way back to the station, Patrick takes the scenic route which brings him down towards the Mourns. When he gets to the clearing, he catches some movement from the corner of his eye, and slows down, really hoping this isn’t orange-glow related. But it’s nothing more extraordinary than the rotavator in action. 

“Playing hookey, huh,” Patrick says to himself, drawing up alongside the gates. There’s nothing pressing waiting for him at work, nothing that can’t be put off until later, or tomorrow even. 

_Sir, would you mind stepping out of the vehicle, and please keep your hands where I can’t see them. Preferably in my pants_. Cheesy lines, he’s got ‘em.

It’s probably as well that he doesn’t open with that, because when he rounds the corner he discovers that Jonny isn’t alone. There’s a figure bent over the soil, dragging a trowel through the earth. 

“Hello,” he says cautiously, and the body startles before straightening and spinning to face him. “Caroline?” 

His mother-in-law looks every bit as surprised as Patrick does, and not especially pleased either. It makes him feel like he’s intruded on something that wasn’t for his eyes.

She claps her gloved hands together, shaking some of the soil from them. “What are you doing here?”

“I was passing,” Patrick shrugs, pointing at the road beyond the house. “Saw the rotavator. Thought Jonny might be here.”

“Well, he isn’t,” she says, clipped.

“Right,” Patrick says. “But you are.” He looks over at the tractor, watching it turn the soil over, creating a dirty looking blizzard. “That’s not him in there?”

Caroline’s mouth narrows a little and she finds a spot on the ground to stare at. “Jonny said we wouldn’t be disturbed.”

“I didn’t know you knew Jonny.”

“He called to my house a couple of weeks ago, looking for some flower cuttings. He knew I was florist, and we got to talking a bit over coffee, and well…” She trails off, looking up and around her. Anywhere but at Patrick. “He told me about this place, said he could do with a hand. And he also said that we wouldn’t be disturbed.”

“Sorry,” Patrick says, jamming his hands in his pockets. “Like I said, I was passing, and Jonny wouldn’t have known I’d be here. So, I - I’ll probably find him back at the store.”

Caroline nods, like it might be a good idea for Patrick to go do that now.

The engine on the tractor goes silent, and Patrick watches as a figure jumps down and begins walking towards them. It’s a man, and as he draws closer, Patrick realizes that he’s vaguely familiar. His hair is gelled back, his clothes shabby and a little too big for him. 

“Sheriff Kane,” he says, nodding at Patrick. 

“Hello,” Patrick returns, confused.

The man twists his hands and takes a breath. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says softly, but with purpose. “I want to apologise for all the injury I have brought upon you, both professionally and personally. I take full responsibility for the harm that I have caused, and wish to make amends for my actions.”

It takes Patrick three more seconds. “Jack?” he says, utterly amazed. “Is that you?”

“Yes, sir. Ten days sober now,” Jack says, standing straight and proud. He looks taller now that he’s not crouching to stay on his feet.

“Wow,” Patrick manages. “That’s wonderful, Jack. Good for you.”

“Thank you,” Jack says genuinely. “And I mean what I say.” He bows his head and looks up from under his lashes. “I want to be a better neighbor, a better citizen, a contributing member of the community. So, if you need any jobs done, I’d be very grateful if you’d give me the opportunity to step up. I wouldn’t expect to be paid or anything. It’d be an honor to help out.”

That’s the longest and most coherent thing that Patrick has ever heard Jack say, and it’s not just the words that are shocking, it’s the sincerity behind them. “Sure,” he says when the silence makes Jack squirm. “If I think of anything. Although, I’m pretty sure Maud could do with some neighborly help?”

“Maud told me good fences make good neighbors,” Jack says, smile wry. “And then she suggested that’s where I start, so I spent the morning mending the fences between our yards. Must have done a good job because she rewarded me most kindly with a large slice of the finest cake I ever tasted.” He nods formally at Patrick and shuffles backwards. “I’ll get back to work, Sheriff. You’ll know where to find me if you need me.”

“I guess,” Patrick says, turning to say goodbye to Caroline. But she’s already bent over the soil again, Patrick dismissed, and likely forgotten.

*****

His legs are wooden as he walks back to the car, his steps almost clunky on the ground. It’s like stumbling off Space Mountain, and Patrick can’t connect with the earth, can’t get his feet to resettle beneath him. He hates that feeling of being knocked off kilter, especially when he’s not even sure why he’s so rattled. It might be just the anger and dumb hurt that’s chewing on his insides, but it feels more than that. Bigger than that.

It sits heavily on him during the drive back, Caroline sharing something with Jonny, and Patrick should be pleased for her, and grateful to Jonny. Very pleased and very grateful, but all he’s really feeling is excluded from something else in Caroline’s life. And it’s almost as if Jonny is facilitating this new exclusion. It feels like a betrayal.

Jonny calls just as he’s pulling up to the yard, and the rational part of Patrick knows that it’s best not to answer, knows that the mess in his head is going to come spilling out of his mouth. It’s so new, where they are, what they are, and it could still be too fragile to withstand Patrick losing hold of his temper. But rationality is quickly gobbled up by the reactive part of him kicking for instant gratification. 

“Why is Caroline up at the Mourns?” he demands, cutting right through Jonny’s cheerful hello.

Jonny breathes loudly down the line. “You went up to the Mourns?” he says, dismayed.

“Was I not supposed to?” Patrick sneers. “Yes, I went up the fucking Mourns, and I saw my mother-in-law doing your gardening or some shit, and she won’t even come to Saturday breakfast with me and the girls —”

“I told her she wouldn’t be disturbed, Patrick,” Jonny says. He sounds disappointed, and that really presses hard on Patrick’s last nerve.

“Yeah, she mentioned that. A couple of times. But why would I be disturbing her, Jonny? I’m her family.”

“This isn’t about you,” Jonny says, sharp. “It’s about her and what she needs. She goes up there most afternoons, spends hours out in the fresh air, taking an interest in something, falling in love with something again. It’s a huge first step for her and right now, it’s personal. She’ll share when she’s ready.”

“But she’s already sharing with you,” Patrick says, and he knows he sounds like an asshole. “You. A stranger. And a miraculously sober Jack. But not me. Not her grandchildren. The people who love her, and have been cut out of her life.”

There’s nothing but static silence for twenty seconds, and then Jonny sighs. “I have to go up to the Mourns to make sure she’s okay. I’ll call you later.”

He actually couldn’t have said anything worse at that moment. “You’re kidding me,” Patrick snaps, looking down at his hand clenched on the steering wheel, knuckles white with tension and fury. “You need to see if she’s okay because she had a two minute conversation with me? What, you’re going to comfort her after the trauma of my presence?”

“Jesus, no, Patrick,” Jonny snaps back. “Don’t put words in my mouth. I’m going up there —”

“To fix my mess,” Patrick cuts in. “Right? I mean, is there anything you can’t fix? Hands, feet, backs, allergies, skin diseases, grief, alcoholism? You’ve got quite the gift there, Jonny.”

It gets quiet again. The only sound in the car is Patrick’s harsh breathing. 

“What’s really bothering you?” Jonny asks eventually. 

“This isn’t enough?” Patrick shoots back.

“It’s plenty. But it’s not all.”

Yeah, it’s not all. It’s just that Patrick doesn’t have the rest right now. “I —” He’s not even sure what’s coming after that, but he’s stopped by a gentle rap on the window. Steve from Treacy’s Towing is waving a hand inches from Patrick’s face. “Have to go,” he finishes, and hangs up before Jonny can reply.

“Afternoon, Sheriff,” Steve says amiably when Patrick rolls the window down. “We got that vehicle from the accident yesterday. Hit your dog, I believe?”

“Yeah,” Patrick sighs, wondering what happened to this day that started out so perfectly. “You got a bill for me?”

“No, sir,” Steve replies. “All on the driver, I hear. We’ve been holding the car until her insurance people got in touch. Some company from, uh -” He pokes around in his shirt pocket for a piece of pink paper that he squints at. “Lockport. They’re on the way over to collect it. But we close up early on a Thursday, and those Lockport folks won’t be here until this evening. I was wondering if they could collect the car from your yard?”

Patrick can see the tow truck in his rearview mirror, just waiting for permission. “Sure,” he says. “I’ll open up for you.” He pulls away, and parks the cruiser past the gates. His stiff limbs are grateful for the stretching they get while guiding the truck into the yard. 

Steve waves off any other help, easing the car onto the ground without trouble. “Appreciate this, Sheriff,” he says, hopping one last time into the truck. “Waste of time and money, though, if you ask me. Should just send the thing for scrap. And I’m real sorry about your dog. Must have been quick, at least.” He gives Patrick a smart salute, and trundles out of the yard.

Patrick turns back to the car, a sudden cold shiver shimmying up his back. When he was a kid, his grandma would say that meant someone was walking over his grave. She’d cackle when she’d say it, poking a bony finger along his spine. It always gave him goosebumps, and left him feeling like something creepy was behind him.

Or, right now, in front of him.

His eyes blur as he stares at the car, and he knows with a certainty that he can’t explain, he _knows_ something awful is under that tarp.

He closes his eyes.

He doesn’t have to look, doesn’t have to see what’s hidden beneath. It’s cold, real cold, and he could go inside, order someone to fetch him a coffee and a chocolate bar from Duncs’ not-so-secret stash. Call Jonny, maybe. Tell him whatever needs to be said to get the rest of this day back on track. The car doesn’t matter. It’ll be gone by the next time Patrick comes to work. There’s no dispute about fault, his wallet is no lighter, his dog is very much alive. 

_Must have been quick at least._

It’s all good, Patrick thinks. Jack is sober, Caroline is outside again, Maud is baking, Elmer is taking an interest in his business, Nance is nicer, Kevin isn’t plagued by hiccups, Esmé is happier in school, and Patrick’s in love. The whole town is changing for the better.

It’s all good.

Unless it’s all an illusion that’s covered by a tarp.

Jonny didn’t want him to look, didn’t want him to see. Patrick had wanted to check on the driver, to speak to Duncs, but Jonny led him away, made sure he didn’t see the car. Said he’d take care of everything, and Patrick had let him.

Patrick opens his eyes. His legs are reluctant as he drags them across the yard, his hands shaky as he pulls at the heavy canvas. It lands with a soft thud onto the ground.

And when he sees what Jonny was trying to hide from him, the most shocking thing is that Patrick isn’t at all shocked. 

He must stay still for too long, because his hands, feet, and cheeks are utterly frozen when he hears a hesitant voice calling from the door.

“Sheriff?”

Patrick breaks his trance to look over at Nick Schmaltz stepping carefully onto the gravel. “You okay there?” he asks. His shoulders are hunched, hands dug into the pockets of his brand new uniform pants. “Sir?”

“I’m fine.”

“It’s just,” Nick says, looking worried. “You’ve been standing out here for almost thirty minutes, and you’ve barely moved.”

Thirty minutes. No wonder he has no feeling in his face. Or his hands. The gloves Jonny gave him are in the glovebox of the cruiser.

“As the first day rookie, everybody’s been having a little fun with me. You know, making me get the coffee, boosting the heating, calling the DA’s office to ask for a long wait, and being left on hold for half an hour. Also, being sent outside to ask the boss why he’s being weird.”

Patrick snorts. The long wait joke is a tradition he might have warned Nick about at dinner.

“You must be freezing,” Nick continues, closer now. “You want me to get -” He cuts off when he reaches Patrick. “Shit,” he mutters, and whistles softly. “What happened here?”

“Car accident,” Patrick answers redundantly, and both of them are looking at where the bumper might be if it wasn’t wiped clean off. There’s a sickening dent in the grille, almost a perfect arch. Both headlights are shot, and all that remains of the windshield is blunt shards stuck in the rubber seal. The hood’s a mangle of twisted green metal, shaped into something decidedly not car-like.

“Fatalities?” Nick asks, backing away.

“None,” Patrick says. The saggy airbag covering the steering wheel gives the whole wreck an even more sinister feel.

“Lucky. What did it hit?”

“My dog.”

Nick’s eyes widen to saucers. “This car hit your dog?” he whispers, stunned. “The dog I saw last night? The one that walked — _walked_ — into your house. Alive and uninjured?”

“Yeah.” 

“Are you sure?” Nick asks, and then rolls his eyes at himself. “I mean, of course you’re sure. It’s just. Jesus, I can’t believe anything survived that hit.”

Patrick’s seen too many road fatalities. They didn’t always look bad, initially. He was second on scene the evening Mel died. He knew it was her. He knew their car. Duncs kept telling him to go home, but it was raining heavily and someone needed to warn oncoming traffic that there was an accident ahead. It was Duncs who told him that Mel was dead, killed on impact. Patrick thanked him, and he went out and shone a torch on the traffic while they cut his wife’s body from the wreckage. Then he traveled to the hospital with her in an ambulance that didn’t even have its sirens on when it left; that’s how dead she was. 

The insurance people called a few days later. He’d need a new door and new headlight on the driver’s side. They could replace the windshield, and fix most the rest with some body work. Most of the damage was caused by the mechanical jaws used to open the door.

“That is good news,” he’d said. “My twenty-four year old wife was killed in that accident, but her children and her mother will be thrilled to hear that the car is doing well.”

The woman had blustered and choked through her apologies, and it wasn’t her fault that somewhere along the way ‘fatality’ had been left out of the paperwork. But Patrick hadn’t any comfort to offer her. “Burn it,” he’d said.

He had been to other accident scenes, ones where the car wasn’t so fortunate, where it was nothing more than twisted metal and shattered glass anointed with gas fumes. He’d seen the luckiest sons of bitches walk away from these carnages. But there was always a reason. Maybe they weren’t wearing a belt, but were lucky enough to have a soft landing. Maybe the impact wasn’t on their side. Maybe something got between them and the impact.

Not here though, Patrick thinks as his eyes flit back down to the mangled grille. Eugene Fitzherbert didn’t escape the impact; he was the impact. There's a perfect curve in the metal, almost Great Dane shaped.

“That’s just freaky,” Nick mutters.

“Freaky,” Patrick agrees. He gives himself a little shake, looking away from the car. “I have to go somewhere. Tell Duncs I’ll be back in a while. Cover this up first.”

“Where should I say you’re going?” Nick asks, already bending for the tarp.

“To the library. Got to see a Giles about a Buffy.”

*****

Gerda Childs doesn’t look particularly surprised to see Patrick. Or particularly happy.

“I am at my place of employment,” she says when Patrick asks if he might speak to her privately. “Unless this pertains to matters involving the library, perhaps we could speak later.” She’s ramrod straight in her chair, only two items on the table before her - a fountain pen and a large ledger. There are computers on the other tables, and Patrick wonders if she ever uses them. 

“It’s very important,” he says firmly.

Gerda regards him coolly for a long moment. “Follow me,” she says, and Patrick does, trotting after her into the small room behind the counter.

“I’m very busy, Sheriff,” she states. She doesn’t take either of the chairs available, and Patrick guesses that means he has to stand, too.

“I’ll get right to the point then,” he says. “How do you know Jonny?”

He’d be disappointed if he was hoping to shock her; Gerda’s expression doesn’t change at all. “I met Jonathan for the first time the same night you did,” she says easily.

“But you knew something about him,” Patrick insists. “I remember thinking it was weird that night, the way you looked at each other. You recognized something about him. You _know_ what he is.”

Gerda looks back at him impassively. “I know he’s a storekeeper.”

“And a bringer of dead dogs back to life.”

“A bringer of —” Gerda stops, unable to finish what her face says is the most ridiculous thing she has ever heard. In fairness, it is probably the most ridiculous thing Patrick’s ever uttered. “Sheriff, I am very busy. Might I suggest if you have questions about Jonathan that you put them to Jonathan.” She begins to stride for the door, her block heels clicking almost musically. 

“I leave my children with him,” Patrick says, and that puts a stop to her feet. 

Gerda turns very slowly, like moving every degree is a deliberate action, and there it is - the reaction Patrick was looking for. Her eyes, always sharp, are now cold like slate, her lips slimmed to almost non-existence. “Jonathan would never harm your children,” she says icily. “ _Never_. Nor would he allow any harm come to them. To any of you.”

“You sound strangely certain about that,” Patrick says, throwing his battered hat onto a chair, and then lifting it back up so he can sit down. “Which is also weird, considering that you only met him a few months ago. Maybe you can explain it to me. No hurry. I’ve got time.”

For a long moment Gerda just stares at him until Patrick feels as if she might just call his bluff, head back to her desk, and leave him there none the wiser. 

“Patrick,” she says eventually, using his given name for the first time. “I would urge you to speak with Jonathan.”

“How about this,” he counters. “We don’t have to speak about Jonathan specifically. I’m just a guy who is asking an experienced librarian some questions about things he doesn’t understand. Could we make that work?”

Gerda looks between him and the door a few times before sighing heavily. She walks with great reluctance to the other seat and takes it, folding her bony hands over the lap of her wool skirt.

“Right,” Patrick says. “So, uh, do you know anything about magicians?”

“You mean tricksters, illusionists?” Gerda replies, distaste in her tone and on her face. “Those with no skills other than sleight of hand and artful distraction? I don’t know any personally, but there is a very popular DVD that is often checked out which may be helpful to you. It’s called _Magic Mike_.”

Patrick’s eyes narrow suspiciously. It’s possible that Gerda just made a pop culture joke, but her expression isn’t giving anything away. “Wizards then.”

“The fictional kind, or those found in supremacist organizations?” Gerda wonders. 

Patrick makes a sound of pure frustration. “C’mon, Gerda,” he says, and it’s a blatant plea. 

Her lips purse, and she scolds Patrick with a silent arch of her eyebrows. They sit quietly for another minute, and Patrick’s on the verge of conceding defeat when Gerda speaks.

“Did you ever meet someone who immediately set you on edge? Someone you have no history with, never spoke to, never seen before? Someone who doesn’t look dangerous, doesn’t act dangerously? He or she may not even be paying any attention to you, and yet you feel threatened, wary, even fearful. You do not want this person near you.”

Patrick nods.

“That’s known as a Darwinian Response, and it’s a perfectly rational survival instinct. Your brain is alerted to a predatory presence, typically from the energy of the dark arts. Occasionally the energy might come from someone who has been infected against his volition, but more often it signals the presence of those who practice black magic. There are archives filled with documented cases of those who have witnessed or been the victims of dark forces; books that tell of curses, of bending the will of others, of the deceased revived, reanimated, or rekindled. Evil doings by evil people. And given that Jonathan is not an evil person, he most certainly did not return your dog from death.”

“Okay,” Patrick says. “That’s what he isn’t. Can you tell me what he is?”

Gerda pauses to pick at imaginary lint on her skirt. “There are other people, good people, who are born with a natural gift. They can temper the energy in what sustains us - water, soil, food, light, heat. They can draw the power stored in herbs, stones, crystals, oils, anything that naturally promotes healing and wellness. And they are powerful enough to transfer that energy to where it might be needed.”

“To where it might be needed,” Patrick echoes. “Like in injured dogs?”

“That is possible.”

“And into creams and lotions that might be used to heal?”

“Also possible.”

“And do these people have any other...gifts?” Patrick presses. “What’s the one where you can move furniture without touching it?”

“Telekinesis,” Gerda answers. “Yes. Mages often have other abilities, such as precognition, spiritual empathy, telepathy, and shielding. But not every mage will have all or even most of those abilities. Some develop them late in life, some never. Sometimes gifts develop in response to a situation or a need.”

“Mages?”

“Yes, Sheriff. That’s what ‘these people’ are typically called.”

Patrick rubs tiredly at his forehead. “You know a lot about this stuff. Are you one of these, uh, advisors, watchers?”

“Watchers,” Gerda repeats flatly. “I’m afraid that I don’t know what those are. I am a librarian and an archivist. That is all.”

That is all. Jesus. “You say that like this is all perfectly normal. People coming into town and casting spells on other people, oh, no big -”

“Sheriff,” Gerda cuts in waspishly. “I thought I was perfectly clear when I said to cast a spell upon a person is to interfere with free will. That is a dark practice, and a mage could not, or would not, do such a thing.” She looks at Patrick pointedly before continuing with a softer, almost sly drop in tone. “For example, he could not use magic to compel people come to his store, or his home. Or be invited into another person’s home. Or make someone leave his children with him. Or, for that matter, make that same someone fall in love with him.”

Patrick blinks in surprise, and looks away. That’s… candid. “Doesn’t this stuff freak you out?” 

Gerda rises gracefully from her chair. “People not returning their books on time freaks me out. People checking out _Fifty Shades of Grey_ freaks me out. People talking on their cell phones in the library freaks me out. Grown men using the phrase ‘freak you out’ freaks me out. People being helped and healed by a force that’s more natural than we believe? That I can live with. Now, Sheriff, I am very busy, and I trust that I answered your questions satisfactorily.”

“Not really,” Patrick says. “I was hoping that you’d tell me I was being ridiculous because there’s no such thing as magic.”

It’s quick, but Patrick catches the slight quirk of Gerda’s lips. “Well, if it helps, Sheriff, I never said you weren’t ridiculous.” 

*****

He steps out of the library and right into Jonny. His hat is cream wool, his coat a forest green wax, and he’s wearing a scarf that’s very Dr. Who, all stripes and impractical length. He looks strangely colourful against the backdrop of the late afternoon grey haze.

“I was on my way to the station to see you,” Jonny says into the silence.

Patrick’s smirk feels a little mean. “And your crystal ball told you to stop at the library?”

Jonny frowns and then nods at the cruiser. “Figured it out by myself. Anyway, look, I wanted to say sorry about today. You were upset about Caroline, and I —”

“I wasn’t upset about Caroline,” Patrick says. He walks down the three stone steps and onto the sidewalk, Jonny following closely until they reach the car. Instead of opening the door, Patrick leans against it, folding his arms across his chest. “You asked me earlier what was really bothering me, and I didn’t know. I thought I was, I dunno, pissed, hurt about Caroline. And I wasn’t. Well, I was, but it was more than that. I was _rattled_. Because of Jack. Seeing Jack, like that, sober and clean. It just… rattled me.”

Jonny is stock still, his face impossible to read.

“I’ve locked Jack up enough times and for long enough to have seen him detox,” Patrick continues. “I’ve seen him shake, vomit, hallucinate, and seize. I’ve seen him attack imaginary demons and have conversations with people who weren’t there. He’s a chronic alcoholic who needs medical supervision for withdrawal. He’s even been through a couple of court mandated rehabs. A week, I think, that was the longest he lasted back in the outside world, and he looked worse with every passing day. And yet, here he is, healthy and lucid, mending fences and driving a tractor. It’s a miracle.” 

To his credit, Jonny doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t move at all, other than to swipe a tongue across his lower lip.

“ _Another_ miracle because there have been so, so many of them since you arrived. But seeing Jack today brought me back to the first miracle I saw you perform. That time we were in the bar, and he fell, but he didn’t hit the stool. Because you moved it. You moved it without touching it.”

Jonny glances at the library door and back to Patrick. “You spoke to Gerda,” he says quietly.

“I spoke to Gerda,” Patrick agrees. “If it helps, she didn’t give you up easily.”

Jonny nods absently. “She wouldn’t have given me up at all if she thought I didn’t want her to.”

That makes sense, Patrick supposes. He’s seen Gerda be formidable, and he’s seen her be impassable. If she’d been really worried about talking, then Patrick would still be sitting in that office, twiddling his hat. 

“You could have talked to me,” Jonny says softly.

“You would have lied.”

Hurt washes over Jonny’s face, darkens his eyes. “No, Patrick, I wouldn’t —”

“Fine, made me look the other way then. You’ve been doing that from the very beginning, right from the time I saw Jack fall from the stool. Whenever I commented on something strange, you brushed it off or changed the subject. You made sure that I didn’t see the car last night, you were keeping me away from the Mourns, away from Jack and Caroline. And then there was the night you called me when I was up at the Mourns. I told you that I thought there was a fire, and you said something like, you’ll get muddy. Which is the weirdest response I’ve ever gotten to _I think your house is on fire_. People panic when they get that news. They’re worried, distressed. They ask if the fire department has been called, when will they get there, is there anyone in the house, is it bad, have the neighbours been told. But you didn’t say any of that because you knew there was no fire, and I missed how strange that was because...” 

I just wanted to get home to you and the girls. 

“... I was dumb.”

“You’re not dumb, Patrick,” Jonny says, exasperated. “But you are oversimplifying.” 

“And you’re evading. Just when exactly where you going to tell me this huge, huge thing about yourself? After two dates? Five? Ten? Is there a magic number? Or were you waiting for me to specifically ask you if you were, you know, a mage?” 

They stare at each other for a few heightened seconds before looking away at the exact same time. “I don’t know,” Jonny says quietly. “This is new to me, too. I wasn’t —”

“You were in a serious relationship before, or did you lie to Oshie the whole time you were with him?”

Jonny frowns in confusion. “Why are you bringing TJ into this?” 

“You said that this was new to you. What exactly is new? Telling the truth or lying to the person you’re with? Which?”

“It’s not… it’s more complicated than you know. If you would just —”

“Oh, am I oversimplifying again? I’m sorry. Do you need me to use bigger words when I ask if you told Oshie about your super secret magic powers?”

“I’m not doing this here, Patrick -”

“Did you tell Oshie what you are, Jonny? Yes or no?”

“Why won’t you -”

“Yes or no?”

“Stop!” Jonny shouts, lifting his hands to his head. He rubs his temples like Patrick’s words are hurting him. “Just stop.”

It’s drizzling now, a light haze that can barely been seen or felt, but will soak both of them through in minutes. Every couple of seconds, a car’s headlights cuts through the fog, breaking it up into pinpricks of falling dew. 

“Come home with me,” Jonny says after they’ve both stared at the ground for a while. “I’ll tell you everything, and I’ll answer every question you have. I’m just not doing it here. It’s cold and we’re wet. Let’s go home, get warmed up, and we can talk.” 

He looks so sincere, his dark eyes coaxing and hopeful, and Patrick wants to go with him. He’s never wanted anything more. But he’s lost all faith in his own objectivity, and given enough promises, he could probably believe anything Jonny wanted to tell him. 

Patrick might drag that tarp back over the car just to keep what he has.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” he says. “I don’t trust you, and I don’t trust myself around you.”

“You don’t -” Jonny stops, choking on an impatient sound. “Patrick, I’m still me.”

“Still you,” Patrick scoffs. “I don’t know what you are.”

“Yes you do,” Jonny says firmly. “You do know what I am. I’m nothing you need to be afraid of. I could never harm you, never use my magic to hurt you, to hurt anyone. I can’t make you do anything, I can’t make you say anything, or stay if you don’t want to, or trick you —”

Patrick thinks he might flinch then, because Jonny cuts off with a weird sort of gasp.

“Patrick,” he says slowly, carefully. “I don’t know how much Gerda told you, but I can’t manipulate emotions. I can’t change how people feel. I couldn’t make _you_ want to be with _me_.”

“It’s not my feelings that I’m doubting.” 

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know,” Patrick says, shrugging. “Maybe I was useful to you when you first got here. Maybe you were just keeping me sweet so I would stay on your side.”

Jonny takes a step back at that, as if Patrick’s words have physically pushed him away. “You think I’d do that? You think I’d use you?”

“I don’t know,” Patrick says. “I don’t know what I think anymore.” 

“You think that I would do that to you, after all you’ve been through?” Jonny snaps.

Patrick’s ready to raise his own voice, but his throat almost closes when he sees how angry Jonny is.

“You think that I’d do that to the girls?” Jonny’s eyes are narrowed, so dark now they’re almost black, dragging all that’s soft from his expression. He’s shaking, seemingly unaware of the sparks that are shooting from his wrists, little blue bursts that snap into life. Patrick watches in fascination as the tiny flames flicker and hiss when they drop to the wet ground.

“That I would ever, ever hurt them,” Jonny continues, taking another step forward and forcing Patrick to press harder against the cruiser. Patrick almost bolts right out of his skin when the car alarm starts to screech, piercing his already jumbled head. “Even though I know how much you have all lost already?” Jonny tips his head to the side and every nearby house alarm bursts into shrill song. “You think I’d bring more pain into your lives?” He snaps his head the other way, and the parked cars on the street begin to vibrate and hum, like they might just lift from the ground. 

It gets even louder when Jonny really lets go, waving his arms and setting off a cascade of the impossible. Street lights flicker off and on, puddles shimmer and shake around Patrick’s feet, and sparks burst like firecrackers near his ears. “How could you think —”

“Jonathan!” 

Patrick swerves to see Gerda standing at the top of the library’s steps, coatless, but with an umbrella held over her head.

Jonny closes his eyes, takes a long breath through his nose, and holds it, just like he’s taught Esmé. In, hold, out. The sparks keep coming, but they’re less frenzied, slowing until they pulse lazily, growing fat, then thin, and finally disappearing when Jonny opens his eyes again. Everything stops, and the immediate darkness and silence is strangely eerie.

“Jonathan,” Gerda says again, but softer. Jonny nods and turns to leave with his head bowed. He doesn’t so much as glance at Patrick. Gerda, however, stares a hole through him.

“I…” Patrick begins, but she doesn’t care to hear the rest. She spins around and heads back into the building.

*****

He sleeps when he gets home. It’s another bad idea in a day that seems to be full of them, and not just because it’s going to throw his body out of whack, but because there’s laundry to be done, and dishes to be washed, and tomorrow to be getting ready for.

But he has neither the energy nor the inclination, and it’s all he can do to kick off his boots and feed the dog before falling down onto the sofa, dragging the ancient blanket over his shivering body. It’s the same one they wrapped around the girls on their first night home from the hospital, although it definitely smells more of mutt than talcum powder these days.

He closes his eyes to shut out the crazy, and when he opens them again, the girls are standing over him, still in their coats.

“Where’s Jonny?” Esmé demands, hands on her hips. 

Patrick squints at her, and heaves himself up. His legs are stiff from being curled up, knees clicking unpleasantly when he swings his feet onto the floor.

“Hi,” Vinnie says, appearing behind the girls. “It’s almost as cold in here as it is outside.”

Patrick nods slowly. “Forgot to turn on the heat.”

“Where’s Jonny?” Esmé says again. She’s looking a little fraught, and Patrick really doesn’t need this right now.

“Hello to you, too, Esmé,” he says dryly. “I’m fine, thanks for asking. How are you?”

She blinks at him, stung by the sarcasm. Beth flanks her quietly, bumping their shoulders together. “But he always comes back to the store after yogalates,” Esmé explains, like maybe Patrick doesn’t understand. “That’s when he does his emails.”

“Yogalates is finished until after Christmas, so Jonny probably did his emails after the store closed, and then went home.” Patrick leaves out the part about the magical rampage, but Esmé looks at him suspiciously, like she knows he’s holding out on her.

“Can we call him?”

“What? No, you’re not calling anybody at this hour,” Patrick answers, exasperated, and done with this. “It’s bedtime. Say goodnight and thank you to Vinnie. Come on!” He hasn’t raised his voice, but his tone is curt, snappish, and not one he uses with his children very often. They stare back at him, eyes wide and wary, and Patrick really, really hates himself right now.

“Let’s go,” he says, gentler. “Say goodnight, and I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

The girls trot over to Vinnie, offering half-hearted hugs and mumbled goodnights, all the joy stripped from their evening. Even their footsteps are muted as they climb the stairs. After a few seconds, Eugene Fitzherbert bounds up after them, and Patrick pretends he doesn’t notice.

“Are you okay?” Vinnie asks hesitantly.

“Nope,” Patrick answers, standing up and making his way to the kitchen. He flicks on the heat, and grabs two bottles from the fridge. “This obsession they both have with Jonny is getting ridiculous,” he says, handing a beer to Vinnie. “And weird.”

Vinnie looks down at the bottle in his hand. “No thanks,” he says belatedly. “I’ve got some reading to do —”

“I want to know what you saw Jonny do last night,” Patrick says, not in any mood to ease into it. He walks back into the living room without waiting to see if Vinnie will follow. The girls are  
in the bathroom, running the faucet, which means they’re brushing their teeth. Patrick sits back down on the sofa, finding the warm spot on the blanket.

“Sheriff,” Vinnie says from the door. “I don’t know —”

“Something magical, right?” Patrick cuts in, and takes a long swig from his bottle. He wipes his mouth with a grimace. “Something impossible? Something that made you think you might have gone crazy?”

Vinnie leans against the door jamb, and takes a noisy sip from his own bottle. 

“So, yesterday evening,” Patrick prompts, rolling a hand to move the story along. “You’re walking with the girls, Ez has the leash, and Eugene Fitzherbert drops his ball. He goes after it, and Esmé lets go of the leash. He bolts out onto the road, and gets hit by the car. The girls are screaming, and then, what, out of nowhere, Jonny to the rescue, yeah?”

Vinnie takes another drink. “They didn’t scream,” he says after a minute. “It was really loud, then really quiet, and then Esmé just started, I dunno, like chanting? Just a stream of _Jonny, Jonny, Jonny_. And then he just...appeared, and I guess he took over? I was just trying to keep the girls on the sidewalk, and the driver was getting out of her car and she was okay, but the dog. Shit, I really thought the dog was going to die. He was just lying there, his eyes were open and fixed, like he was staring at nothing. He wasn’t even really breathing, just sort of… shuddering.”

Patrick can imagine how shit that was to look at. 

“Jonny told me to go get the van from the yard at the back of the store, and he sent the girls with me. They were to get some sort of ointment or cream or something.”

“Where was the driver?”

“With Jonny. Oh, wait, no.” Vinnie’s face scrunches up in concentration, like he’s replaying the scene in his mind. “She’d been on the phone to her insurance people, I think, but she walked to the corner with us because she lost the signal.” 

Patrick nods, unsurprised. “Jonny’s got you all out of the way, and he’s alone with the dog.”

Vinnie taps his fingers absently on the bottle. “I almost didn’t see it,” he says after a few seconds. “I stopped at the corner, and I don’t even know why, but I turned around. At first I thought maybe Jonny had a penlight or something, but it wasn’t a light, it was more of a glow, you know like in movies when someone touches a magic orb or something? It was coming from about midway down his arms, past his wrists, right down to his fingertips.” 

He stops to drain his bottle before continuing, his tone weirdly detached. “He wasn’t actually touching the dog. His hands were hovering over him, as if he was pressing the light into the dog’s body. Then the dog started to jerk, like he was having a fit. But Jonny just pressed harder, and they both began to move towards the sidewalk, or rather Jonny started to guide Eugene Fitzherbert off the road. He wasn’t holding him, or lifting him, just kind of, I dunno, making the dog follow his hands, like they were magnets or something.” He shudders as if shaking himself out of the memory. “Anyway, the girls were calling me, and after that everything just… sped up. The driver was off her phone. Other people were starting to pull up. Someone was calling for a tow. It just all got really busy then. I got the van, and I called you. That’s it.”

“That’s it,” Patrick repeats, remembering Gerda’s _that is all_ from earlier. He eyes Vinnie suspiciously. “This morning, you were...off. And I put that down to thesis stress and tiredness, but it wasn’t just that, was it?”

“No,” Vinnie admits. “It was pretty shocking, the whole thing. The accident, and what happened after. It was a lot to process.”

“But you worked through it?” 

Vinnie shrugs off the sarcasm. “I went for a walk after you left. My head was —” He makes an exploding gesture with his hands. “You know? And I met Nance Reid. She stood in front me and was saying something so I took my earbuds out to hear her. I thought it was going to be some complaint about how I manhandle the fruit in her store when I’m checking for bruises, or some shit like that. You know what Nance is like.”

Patrick _used_ to know what Nance was like.

“But she didn’t,” Vinne says. “She said good morning, and then she asked after the girls and Eugene Fitzherbert, seemed mighty relieved to hear that everyone was okay. And then she wished me well with my paper. I was looking around, thinking what the hell, and then I noticed that Lev Morrison was hanging up Christmas lights in his window, and I don’t even think I’ve ever seen his curtains pulled back before. And Janey Goodly went by, laughing with her two grandkids, the kids she hasn’t been able to see since that feud with her daughter-in-law. So, I started walking again, and people were passing me, smiling and saying hello. The bus had come in from Milton, and some of the passengers had gifts, like they were out Christmas shopping. One of them was even humming a Christmas song. It was …” 

“Weird,” Patrick supplies, leaning forward. “This is exactly what I’m talking about —”

“No,” Vinnie exclaims, shaking his head. He looks impatient, as if Patrick just isn’t getting it. “It was _normal_. It’s perfectly normal for people to be friendly and neighborly. Perfectly normal to show concern, or offer help, or come together as a community. This — what’s happening in this town right now — this is normal. You know what isn’t normal? The constant misery and pain, the pettiness, the illnesses, the fights, the nastiness. That’s what was weird. And Jonny changed that. He came here, and he made this place normal. He made people kind. And you know what? I’m okay with that.”

“But it isn’t real,” Patrick snaps. 

“Feels real to me,” Vinnie returns. “Feels real to everyone else Jonny has helped.”

“It isn’t real, and it probably isn’t free,” Patrick insists. “What is it they say? To make magic work, you have to give something to get something?”

Vinnie gives him the strangest look. “If by they, you mean Rumpelstiltskin from Shrek Forever After, sure.”

Patrick winces. He was wondering where he’d heard that before. “But what does he want?”

“To help?” 

He kind of has Patrick there. Jonny has done way more giving than receiving, especially when it came to Patrick. Childminding, cooking, cleaning, friendship, kisses. He’d only asked Patrick for a couple of things - dates, and a few hours ago, a chance to be heard, to explain. So far, Patrick was oh for two in terms of reciprocity. 

“What do you think he wants from Eugene Fitzherbert in return for saving his life?” Vinnie presses. “Or the girls, given that it was their dog he was helping? And risking so much to do it. I saw him, and the driver could easily have turned around, or the girls. Anyone could have walked down the street, and seen Jonny right in the middle of doing his …” Vinnie waves a hand around expansively. “Thing. But he still risked that so he could help your dog and your daughters.”

Patrick hasn’t got a single thing to say to that, but Vinnie doesn’t seem to be waiting for a response. He zips up the coat he hadn’t taken off, and jams his hands into his pockets. “Got to go,” he says.

Patrick follows him out, both of them stepping onto the sidewalk. Vinnie looks over at Jonny’s store, and Patrick’s eyes follow. It’s empty, dark, and the haze makes it appear almost gloomy. 

“I’m going to say something that’s probably going to overstep the mark,” Vinnie says, eyes still across the street. “But, hey, what’s the worst you’re going to do? Fire me?”

Patrick can feel his shoulders hunch defensively. “Okay,” he says. 

“Your relationship with Jonny is not my business, nor is it anything I’d ever speculate on. Or gossip about.”

“But?”

“But,” Vinnie says, nodding. “I’ve never seen you be as happy as you’ve been recently. You and the girls. And I don’t really get why that’s something you’re fighting against, instead of fighting for.” He holds out a hand abruptly, and Patrick stares at it for a few seconds before taking it. But instead of a handshake, Vinnie tugs him into a sort of hug that’s awkward and clumsy, but makes Patrick feels surprisingly better. 

****

He collects the mail on the way back inside, absently skimming it while hip-checking the door shut. Bills, mostly, a couple of flyers, and one other that makes his heart turn over in his chest.

Ms. Alton uses the same picture postcard for all her Good News Notes - a black and white photograph of a child and a cat reading in a library corner. The kid has a pudgy arm slung across the cat, while both of them stare at the opened book on the floor.

Patrick flips it quickly, eyes scanning over the neat but loopy handwriting. 

_Dear Sheriff Kane, you will be so pleased to hear that Esmé is our student of the month! She has worked very hard, and has been entertaining us all with her interesting stories. We especially enjoyed the one she wrote about the legend of the Rowan Tree. The writing and the illustrations were just wonderful. So, congratulations, Esmé - I’m sure your dad will be every bit as proud of you as I am._

_Ms. Alton_

Patrick rereads it again and again, until his eyes blur and the words run into each other. He needs a minute to breathe, to ground himself, and then he pockets the postcard. The carpet muffles his footsteps as he climbs the stairs to the girls’ room. 

“Hi,” he says softly, hesitantly.

“Hi, Dad,” Beth whispers back. She’s lying down, propped up with a few pillows, a picture book resting against her bent knees. Beside her, Esmé is curled into a tight ball, pretending to be asleep. Patrick resists the urge to call her on it.

“How about a story?” he asks, walking over to the bed and fussing unnecessarily with the comforter. Eugene Fitzherbert’s tail thumps against his foot, but Patrick doesn’t mention the _no dog in the bedroom_ at night rule. 

Beth looks from him to her sister, and back again. “Maybe tomorrow,” she says apologetically.

Patrick takes a breath and nods. “Okay, how about a hug then?” He thinks he might cry if she refuses, and then he thinks he might cry when she accepts, wrapping her little arms around his neck tightly.

“Baby,” he mumbles, pressing his lips against her soft cheek. “I’m sorry I was grumpy when you came home tonight. You guys didn’t do anything wrong.”

“That’s okay, Dad,” she says. “We had a nice time with Vinnie.”

“Yeah?” Patrick asks, pulling back and pressing her gently into lying down, tucking her legs under the covers. “What did you do?”

“We did bowling, and we got burgers, and I won the bowling.”

“Cool. And did your sister have fun?”

Esmé’s eyes flicker, but stay shut.

“Yeah,” Beth answers. “She’s just really tired now.”

Patrick hmms quietly and bends to kiss her forehead. He leans across to kiss Esmé’s cheek, eyes prickling when she wriggles away from him.

“Goodnight,” he says, and tries to be content with the one _goodnight_ he gets in return. The postcard will just have to wait until the morning. It could be the start they all need to a new day.

Back downstairs, he moves around slowly, unloading the dishwasher, filling the dryer, letting the mundanity soothe his mind a little. There’s no bread for the girls’ lunches, so he defrosts two tortilla wraps, and fills them with bologna. He’s searching for the lunchboxes when he comes across Esmé’s book in her school bag. It’s wedged behind the Henry Danger sandwich tin, wrapped and protected in a plastic cover. Patrick gently wrestles it free, and flips through maybe twelve sheets of copier paper, stapled together at the edges.

**The Rowan Tree is the title, and in parenthesis, _(A True Story, retold by Esmé Kane)_.**

Patrick smiles at the careful handwriting, so much neater and smaller than Beth’s sloppy scrawl. Esmé is more particular with her drawings, too, and the large tree on the cover is easily recognisable as the one up at the Mourns.

It feels like a substantial read, so Patrick falls down onto the sofa, kicking his legs up.

**Once upon a time Eerie was called Eyre. This was after the dinosaurs but before Jesus. It was a happy place.**

There’s a drawing to support this statement, a gathering of some very happy stick people dressed in animal skins, smiling curves on their faces. They look like they’re posing for a photograph, their little dot eyes looking at the camera. Over in the corner is a gravestone, on which is written, _Here Lies Dino. He died from a meteor_.

Patrick turns the page.

**A man came to visit Eyre, and he brought his son. The man’s name was Eliphas. His son’s name was Bardo.**

There are two arrows, one pointing down to a jolly looking character with a rounded belly and full beard. The other pokes at a smaller figure, thinner and more childlike.

**Eliphas went to do some business with the rich man in the big house on top of the hill. Bardo went out to play in the garden.**

The picture shows Eliphas and the rich man greeting each other, arms high in the air. They could be waving at each other. Or dancin’ in da club. Bardo, however, is moving away from them unnoticed, perhaps a little foreshadowing of all not being well.

Called it, Patrick thinks when he turns over.

**A terrible thing happened.**

There’s nothing else on this page, no drawings, no colours, like the writer is preparing her audience for the Terrible Thing.

Turns out, it’s Bardo’s untimely demise. He’s now lying in a field of red and white plants, his mouth just a straight line. His eyes are two x-s, and his complexion is a weird lilac. Beside him is Eliphas, who seems to have gotten new shoes. There are blue streams of water pouring from his eyes.

**Bardo ate some berries that were growing in the garden. They were very dangerous and they made him die. (PS - the berries are called Actaea Pachypoda and sometimes they are called dolls eyes.)**

The next page shows a very angry Eliphas shaking his fist at the rich man. He seems to have lost quite a bit of weight — whether due to the stress of the last few minutes, or Esmé’s need to fit in a huge speech bubble.

**“ _I will bury Bardo on this land and he will poison you like you poisoned him. The poison will leak out of his body and into your soil and your water and your air. And then it will get into your food and your bodies. You will all be cursed and you will all mourn. Mwuhuhuhuh._ ”**

Man, that escalated quickly.

Patrick turns to find the most detailed drawing of all. All generations of townsfolk are represented; from babies to the elderly. They all have emoji type sad faces, upside C-s for mouths. Some have curious spots on their faces, some are bent over, others have walking sticks, all are painfully thin and dressed in grey rags. A young child carries her sick, possibly even dead, cat, and another has an empty pet carry cage in his hand. There’s a little bit of a continuity issue, with someone clearly hooked up to a not-as-yet-invented IV drip. Gone is the blue sky and the green grass, and all that’s left is a scorched earth and its miserable inhabitants. At least, those who have survived. The graveyard is now full of headstones, Dino’s in the middle of them. The only text is in the speech bubbles - people grumbling about the curse and wishing someone would save them.

A hero, Patrick muses, moving on, and feeling gut punched when a lady so like Mel arrives in Eyre. The twins have no memory of their mom, but they recreate her from photographs and home-videos. Usually, when a heroine or princess is called for in a drawing or on a homemade card, Mel appears.

**Lots and lots and lots of years later a magic lady came to town. Her name was Rahaila and she was very nice. She was very sorry to hear about the curse and she wanted to help the people and the animals because she was kind. So she planted a Rowan Tree on top of Bardo’s body.**

Rahaila, like Mel, has pale skin, long chestnut hair, and eyes just a shade darker than the girls’. She’s holding out her thin arms, like she’s offering a hug.

**“ _Look after the Rowan Tree and it will look after you_.”**

There follows an intermission of sorts.

**What you need to know about the Rowan Tree.**

**The Rowan Tree has special powers that protect against bad things. It is a good tree. It has white flowers and red berries.**

**Instructions for looking after the Rowan Tree**

**Give water and light.  
** Visit.  
Give presents.  
Give hugs. 

It appears that the residents of Eerie do just that, because the next illustration is of happy townsfolk once more, all of them waving happily and healthily to a departing Rahaila, while the tree thrives in the background.

Although, the good fortune and happiness last only as long as it takes Patrick to turn the page again.

**But after many, many, many years, people started to forget about the Rowan Tree. They didn’t visit or bring gifts and the Rowan Tree started to die. And then Bardo’s poison came back and everyone was sad and sick again.**

It’s a shock to see so many people in this drawing that he recognises. Maud in her trademark tweed coat, with a big bandage on her arm. Darren Walden in a wolf mask, shouting _baby blood, baby blood_. Dev Reid standing amongst his flock of dead sheep, a shepherd’s crook in his hand. Trudi Tucci is there, too, leaning on her crutches as she walks away from the reverend, who’s easily identifiable in his long black coat. He’s holding a book with a cross, and the speech bubble has him saying - _blah, blah, blah_. Jack is crossing the road, not paying attention to the traffic, his yellow hands holding onto a bottle of clear liquid. But it’s the last character that makes Patrick draw a sharp breath. It’s him, in the corner, wearing his sheriff’s uniform. His mouth is a flat line, and his eyes, although just dots, are sad and tired looking.

Patrick looks away for a moment, his gaze sweeping around the room, at bags and coats and pictures and shoes. At toys and candles and a picture of the girls with their mom. At their lives in this room.

He’d never cried about Mel in front of his children because he never wanted them to be afraid to talk about her in case it made him sad. Mel died one day, but for more than eight thousand other days, she lived. She lived, and she loved, and she laughed. She would get giddy over the smell of nail polish remover, preferred her toast on the burnt side, was foolish with money, and would cry if she heard about animals being hurt. Beth has her smile, and Esmé has her fiestiness. 

He would laugh when he told the girls about the time she waxed her eyebrows right off, and smile when he told them how she couldn’t sing a note. He’d sound wistful when talking about the night they met, and fierce when he told the girls how much she loved them, how happy they made her.

Later, when the suffocating choke of grief lessened, a loneliness settled in his bones. He didn’t talk about it, not to anyone, especially not the girls. 

He didn’t have to, he realises now as he looks back down at the drawing of himself. They knew anyway. It’s all over his cartoon face, and the slump of his out-of-proportion shoulders.

“Fuck,” he mumbles. This day has been one long game of emotional Whac-A-Mole. He turns the page quickly and barks out a surprised laugh when he sees Jonny. He’s looking less like the questing prince, and more like the good guy from next door. His t-shirt is blue, his hair is maybe a bit severely parted, but his eyes are big and dark, framed with long eyelashes, as if Esmé wants the reader to pay attention to them. He’s posited against a grey backdrop, two huge, brown suitcases on either side of him.

**And then Jonny came.**

The next page is broken up into four cartoon slides, the twins appearing in each one. It’s easy for Patrick to tell who is who. Beth’s clothes are pastel shades, outfits all coordinated carefully. Esmé’s dressed like a rainbow crashed down on top of her, bleeding colours everywhere. In every picture she’s on the left, Beth on the right. They’re helping Jonny in the store, they’re playing with Belladonna and Eugene Fitzherbert, they’re dressed in their Halloween costumes, drinking mugs of witches brew. The last is of the three of them holding hands as they dance around the once again healthy looking Rowan Tree.

**Jonny helped the tree get better. And he helped the people get better. Jonny saved the day for Eerie Falls.**

Then it’s the last page, which is just him, Jonny, and the girls. A cheerful looking family portrait, all of them beaming at the reader. Patrick’s eyes are brighter, dotted with silver to make them shine. His cheeks are flushed, and all his teeth are on show, like he’s not just smiling, but laughing.

**And everyone lived happily ever after. THE END**

He’s not sure how long he spends rereading those last two lines, but when the cramp in his neck makes itself known, he pulls his legs up and lies across the sofa. The book slides from his fingers, silently falling onto the carpet. His feet tangle in the smelly blanket and he kicks at it until it covers him a little.

He shuts his eyes and immediately starts to drift off.

*****

It’s a horrible, depressing morning without Jonny in it. The store is dark and empty, and looks strangely deserted. Patrick feels sick just looking at it.

There’s not much in the kitchen to make him feel better. The cupboards and fridge are fresh-food-free zones, the milk is very much in hoping-for-the-best territory, and the cereal is mostly crumbs. The tortillas were left unwrapped and forgotten overnight, and are now hard and curling on the counter. He’s going to have to pick up some lunch for the girls at Nance’s and then drop it to school, which means that he’ll be late, and then he’ll be interrupting Ms. Alton, and seriously, fuck this day already.

The girls are down the stairs by the time Patrick has shooed Eugene Fitzherbert off the only clean work shirt.

“Ugh,” Beth says when she spies the mushed cereal in her bowl. “I think the milk is bad, Dad.”

“It’s fine,” Patrick says absently, shaking his shirt to get rid of the dog hair. “But there isn’t much left. Share it with your sister.”

“I don’t want any,” Esmé mutters. 

“You’re eating your breakfast, Esmé,” Patrick says, plugging in the iron, and keeping his back turned because he really can’t have an argument with her this morning.

He’s placing the shirt on the ironing board when there’s a sudden blur of movement in his peripheral vision as a bowl of cereal smashes against the wall. Patrick stares at it stunned, almost sure that he’s not seeing the milk dribbling down the tiles, small flakes sticking to them as they follow the path. The bowl, much like Patrick’s patience, lies on the floor, shattered into pieces. He turns around slowly, almost afraid that he’s going to start shouting and not be able to stop.

But when he looks at Esmé, the air gets trapped in his lungs and there’s a sudden, painful lump in his throat. She’s staring back him, her own eyes wide and brimming with tears. There are dark purple lines above her cheekbones, and under them her skin is so pale that it’s almost translucent. Milk is leaking from her closed mouth, a spoon of cereal hamstered in her cheeks. “Spit it out, sweetheart,” he whispers, blinking his own suddenly wet eyes. He reaches her just in time to hold a rag under her chin while she sobs her breakfast into it. Every heave of her tiny body is a kick to Patrick’s gut. 

“Esmé,” he begs, lifting her from the chair and into a hug, and not even caring that the milky mush is now being smushed into his neck. It’s killing him that she won’t hug him back, that she’s nothing more than a dead weight in his arms.

“Can I go to the bathroom?” she asks.

“In a minute. Ez, please. Please talk to me. Look, I don’t even care about the bowl or the mess. I just need you to talk to me. Is this about Jonny? Do you want to see him? We could call him and —”

“She thinks you don’t love her anymore,” Beth chimes in from across the table. 

“She what?” Patrick manages, looking between both his children. Esmé ducks her head and hides her eyes.

“I have to brush my teeth,” Beth announces, and skips out of the kitchen.

Patrick’s crouched on bent knees, and he feels his feet slip, like they’ve no grip on anything. He falls back onto his butt, taking Esmé with him, stretching his legs on the hard ground. Esmé’s head tucks in under his chin, and he closes his hands around her back, holding her while they take the moment they both need.

He’s well versed in the language of child manipulation. _If you don’t buy me ice-cream then you don’t love me. If you make me go to bed then you don’t love me._ It’s nothing he doesn’t remember trying out himself. But there’s no power game going on here, just his tiny daughter, heartbroken and scared because she thinks her dad has stopped loving her. 

Patrick feels like he’s been slit from belly to chest, and gutted. He’s never wanted his own mom so badly in his life. “Why would you ever think that?” he says eventually.

Esmé squirms and muffles an answer into Patrick’s bicep. But he hears it perfectly. “Because you found out what Jonny can do, and you don’t love him anymore.”

And he’s right back to where he was yesterday, surprised by how not surprised he is. “You can do what Jonny does?” he asks, his voice steady. 

Esmé doesn’t speak or even move, and Patrick pushes her gently until she’s moving out of his lap and onto his legs. “Look at me,” he says, and waits until she does. 

“Hey.” He catches hold of her hand. “Did I ever tell you about how lie detectors work?”

She stares at him for a few long seconds, her head shaking slowly.

“Well, they work by measuring heartbeat. When people tell lies and they feel scared or guilty, then their heartbeat changes.” He lifts her hand to his chest, and flattens her palm against it. “Can you feel my heartbeat?”

Esmé looks at her own hand and nods. “It’s fast.”

“That’s because my heart knows that this is a very important talk we’re having. Now, I want you to keep your hand there and I want you to keep looking at me. But mostly I want you to listen to me, okay?”

“Okay,” she whispers.

Patrick holds her gaze as he begins to talk. “I love you and your sister more than I love anything else in the world. I love you both more than I love anybody else in the world. Did my heartbeat change?”

“No.” Esmé smiles a little, which works wonders on the tightness in Patrick’s ribcage. 

“And I’ll never stop loving you. No matter what happens, that will never change. Am I lying?”

Esmé stares at her own hand, brow furrowed in concentration. “No.”

“So you can tell me anything and know that I will still love you, and I will still think that you’re amazing.”

She nods again, her chin jutting up as it does when she’s being brave about something. “I can do magic.”

Patrick responds without hesitation. “I think that’s the most awesome thing I’ve ever heard.” He says it like each word is a sentence of its own. I. Think. That’s. The. Most. Awesome. Thing. I’ve. Ever. Heard. “How’s my heart doing?”

Esmé scrambles to her feet and launches herself at him, her skinny arms wrapping tightly, fiercely, around his neck, locking Patrick into a chokehold. Her face is damp against his neck, and he doesn’t know if it’s snot or spit or tears, or maybe all three. His undershirt is definitely a lost cause.

It stings to hear her cry like this, but he feels better for knowing that she’s doing it in his hold, allowing him to take the weight of her hurt, to need his comfort. They sit like that, putting each other back together, until Esmé draws back and wipes at her face.

“Sometimes I know things without people telling me,” she says, suddenly businesslike.

“That’s useful,” Patrick says, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Which is a complete waste of time, considering that there are at least fifty more wayward curls waiting in line to take its place. “Like how you knew that Jonny was nice before you met him? And how the store was going to be awesome and everyone was going to want to shop there?”

“Yes,” she says. “And sometimes I know what makes people better, and Jonny doesn’t even tell me. Because I just know. And I can do other things, like I made Jonny hear me in his head when Eugene Fitzherbert got knocked down. And I can sometimes move things with just my thinking.”

Telekinesis, Patrick thinks, and then he remembers something else Gerda said. _There are other people, good people, who are born with a natural gift._

Born, not made.

“First it was the crayon.”

“The crayon?” 

“My red crayon,” Esmé clarifies. “In school. But I didn’t mean to. And it was Kyle’s fault, too, because he took it and he wouldn’t give it back. And I couldn’t reach over and get it, because, well, you know.” She scratches her head, and pulls a _gross_ face. “The critters. I kept asking him to give it to me but he kept saying no, and so —” She stops, her lips sealing in an unhappy line.

“You made the crayon come to you,” Patrick finishes for her, another piece of the puzzle settling into place. 

“I really didn’t mean to. I didn’t even know I could move things with my thinking.”

“That was the first time it ever happened?”

She nods earnestly.

“Did Kyle see what you did?”

“Yes, and then he put his hand up to tell Ms. Alton, so I thumped him on the arm before he could. Then he was crying and I got in trouble. I had to go to the quiet tent in the library corner to think about my choices.”

Patrick sighs. “Oh Esmé.”

“I know, Dad,” she sighs back. “And then I was afraid my magic would burst out again and people would see it.”

“So you hurt them to make them go away?”

He hadn’t thought it possible for his heart to break any more until she nods her head. It flatout wounds him to think of her lashing out because she was worried and confused. “And Jonny helped you control your magic?”

She thinks about that for a few seconds. “No,” she says decidedly. “Jonny showed me how to make my mind go quiet, and then I wasn’t mad or scared, and my magic stayed inside.”

Until a few minutes ago, Patrick thinks, glancing over at the shattered bowl on the floor. “But you talk to him about it, what you can do?”

“No, I just know and he just knows.” She pauses, as if carefully thinking about what she’s going to say next. “He teaches me lots of things about plants and herbs, but he doesn’t say anything about magic. I think he’s waiting for me to tell you. He always says how great you are.”

It sucks that Jonny is likely revising that opinion, but Patrick has no time to dwell on it because Beth is shouting down the stairs.

“The bus is here and our hair isn’t done and Esmé hasn’t brushed her teeth and I can’t find my coat and the bus is here.”

“Shit,” Patrick mutters, lifting Esmé from his lap, and himself from the floor. His legs are so numb that he almost lands back on his ass. 

“We’re really late,” she says.

“I know.” He grabs a hold of her hand and wobbles to the door with her. “The girls aren’t going to school today, Mrs. Tweedy. They’re very sick,” he shouts out to the driver. “Look sick,” he whispers to Esmé.

“Sorry to hear that, Sheriff,” Mrs. Tweedy calls back from the window of the bus. “Hope it’s nothing too serious.”

“No,” Patrick says. “Just a touch of… magicitis.”

“Well,” Mrs. Tweedy says cheerfully, already pulling away. “Hope everyone is feeling good tomorrow.”

Patrick and Esmé giggle at the cleverness of the joke, but sober quickly when the bus leaves and they have a clear view of Jonny’s store, still empty, still dark. A few would be customers are pacing up and down, staring in confusion from the shop door to their watches.

“We’re all going to go see Jonny later, okay?” 

“Okay,” Esmé says agreeably.

Beth comes crashing down the stairs just as they’re closing the door. “Are we not going to school today?” she squeals. “Are we sick? I didn’t know that we’re sick.”

“Yes,” Patrick says, scooping her up onto his hip. “We are very, very, very sick.” He stops to kiss all over her face, making her squirm and laugh. “And the only cure is to get back into our pjs, and eat some Ben and Jerry’s while we’re all squashed on the sofa, under the blanket. And hey,” he adds, kissing her once more. “You know I love you, right? You and your sister…”

“What flavour Ben and Jerry’s?” Beth says, cutting right through the mushy nonsense. 

Several flavours, as it happens. The fresh food might be in short supply, but the freezer yields a half carton of chunky monkey, and mostly full cartons of honeycomb and peanut butter. Patrick also finds a packet of frozen waffles, a pack of mixed berries, and all together it makes a mighty feast that’s shared under a duvet and in front of a Disney marathon. They keep the curtains closed, locking the world outside, and they cuddle and sing and laugh and eat until Patrick swaps the pain in his chest for one in his belly.

*****

It’s hard to know just who is mad with whom, and which of the two of them are in the wrong, or more in the wrong. Patrick’s not sure if he’s going to get an apology or a bucket of water over the head when he sees Jonny again. He doesn’t even know which he deserves, but he leaves the girls to wait in the car until he has a better idea.

It doesn’t help that Jonny’s face is hard to read when he opens his door. Patrick immediately puts a hand on it, just in case it closes again. “I’m going to give you a very good reason not to slam this in my face. Okay?”

Jonny blinks slowly, like he’s still catching up with Patrick being here in front of him.

“Actually, I’m going to give you two reasons,” Patrick amends. “ _Girls!”_

Three reasons really, because Eugene Fitzherbert is with the twins when they round the corner. There’s a squeal of _Jonny_ as the girls launch themselves at him. Jonny crouches down to catch them and pull them into a giant hug, and then it’s just a tangle of limbs and laughter. The sight of it punches Patrick so hard that he has to look away for a second and swat his sleeve against his eyes.

“We had ice-cream for breakfast, Jonny,” Beth says. 

“With the nuts and the honeycomb,” Esmé adds as soon as her sister is finished, and then they take to talking at the same time. Jonny stands up, an arm holding each of the girls, helping them climb and wrap around him like crazy wisteria plants. It’s taking the terrible blankness from his face, and he’s beaming and trying to get a word in edgeways. Failing, mostly.

“But we had berries to be healthy Jonny!”

“And waffles. Waffles are healthy, Jonny!”

“Man, you two are making me hungry,” Jonny says.

“Me too,” Beth says.

“Me three,” Esmé adds, giggling. “Dad, we’re hungry again.”

They all look at Patrick as if that’s his problem to solve. “I could go and pick something up?”

“Or I could cook?” Jonny says, closing his arms a little tighter around the girls, like it would hurt him if Patrick took them away, even just to collect food.

“How about Manon’s?” Patrick suggests.

The twins oooh and gasp with excitement. “That’s a very fancy restaurant, Jonny,” Beth explains. “We go there for birthdays and Dad gets the ribs and the sauce gets on his face. But.” She stops and looks down at her leggings and slippers. “We’re not wearing our fancy clothes.”

“We don’t need fancy clothes to pick up take-out,” Patrick says. 

“You don’t have to —” Jonny says, but he’s quickly drowned out.

“Can we have double crunch shrimp?” Beth asks. 

“And steak,” Esmé says. “With the sauce. And the mashed potatoes with the garlic. And the honey salmon. Did you ever have the honey salmon, Jonny? It’s salmon with honey on it.” 

Jonny shakes his head, and reluctantly lowers the girls to the ground. “I’d love to try it, though. Maybe you could pick me up some?” Eugene Fitzherbert takes advantage of Jonny finally having a free hand by pressing his head in for a pet.

“I’ll do the picking up,” Patrick says. “Everyone else is going to stay here and set the table.” 

Jonny stills, eyes widening with surprise. “Thanks,” he manages to say, just one word loaded with gratitude. Patrick bats it away with a wave of his hand.

“You’re the one doing me a favor here. They’ve eaten nothing but sugar all day, and the only exercise has been walking to the car to get here. I’d maybe turn on Youtube and let them dance it off.”

“I think we can do better than that,” Jonny says, smiling when the girls crane their necks to look up at him. “You want to help me do a job? The chickens have escaped from the coop and I’m trying to round them up.”

The girls respond to that with predictable delight, bouncing up and down, and tugging Jonny inside. Patrick gets goodbye waves, and the last thing he hears before the door closes is Beth telling Jonny that she and Esmé were very sick today, and they might still be sick. She’s not sure, but they can ask her dad when he gets back.

It’s not a long drive to Milton, just thirty minutes in light Friday evening traffic. Patrick’s glad of the time to himself, turning off the radio, his thoughts soothed by the soft whirr of the engine. When he gets to Manon’s, he orders quickly, and in bulk. The bill makes him wince and choose his credit rather than debit card.

“At least twenty minutes,” the server tells him.

Patrick steps outside to wait, and finds himself walking the short distance to the lakeshore. The dock is poorly lit, rickety and probably a bit dangerous in this high wind, but his feet are sure as he steps across the wood to the water’s edge. 

It’s quiet, nothing but the sound of nature calling, and it feels good to stand like this, to look up at the sky, to stare into the vastness and just be a small, almost insignificant part of it.

He raises his chin, lets the wind wash over his face, and offers up the chaos of the past few days, letting the breeze take it to where it will.

*****

Dinner is bursts of liveliness and silence. The twins carry most of the conversation, chatting excitedly about chickens and trees and Peking sauce, but then falling quiet as they chew an impressive hole into the vast amount of food on the table. Patrick’s beginning to wonder if they have worms.

He and Jonny don’t say much, but it’s not an uncomfortable silence. Patrick’s not sure what it is exactly. Heightened? Expectant, maybe.

“We’re full,” Beth says, looking sadly at a half-empty carton of shrimp. “Can we have more later?”

“Tomorrow,” Patrick says. And probably Sunday, too. Monday, if the leftovers keep fresh that long. “You guys want to watch some TV?” It’s a bit of a liberty to hand out an invitation like that, given that it isn’t his house, but Jonny’s not offended. He’s up off his chair and guiding the twins towards the living room. The chatter fades as they get further away, and after a couple of minutes Patrick can hear the theme tune to Henry Danger.

He’s picking at the last of the fried noodles when Jonny comes back.

“Coffee?” 

Patrick shakes his head. “No thanks.”

“Okay,” Jonny says, and it sounds like he’s mostly saying that to himself. He takes a chair opposite Patrick, sitting in a weirdly formal position, back straight and hands folded on the table. “So, do you...do you want to ask questions, or, will I just, um, talk?”

Even his voice sounds suddenly stiff, and that’s just no good. “Questions,” Patrick says. “Are the girls okay?”

“Yes? They’re watching TV?” 

“Cool. And, um…” Patrick looks away awkwardly, twisting his expression into something fraught. “I guess I’m just going to...”

Jonny’s face creases with concern. “You can ask me anything.”

“Anything?”

“Anything,” Jonny promises.

“Cool,” Patrick says, holding his hands up solemnly. “Do you...ah, fuck it, I’m going to say it. Can I have a washcloth?”

Jonny stares at him. “Can you…have… a… oh my god, you asshole.” He doesn’t laugh, which, fair, it’s not Patrick’s best work, but he’s not looking like he’s being led to the gallows anymore, so that’s a win. “Washcloth,” he scoffs, just as one comes sailing unaided through the air and whacks Patrick on the back of the head before landing neatly on the table. 

“Thank you,” Patrick says politely, carefully wiping his sticky hands, and then around his mouth, because Beth is right about how he wears leftover sauce there.

“This stuff really doesn’t frighten you,” Jonny says, puzzled, and maybe even a little amazed. 

“Flying washcloths? Hardly. Flying breakfast bowls, now those are what you want to watch out for.”

Jonny winces. “Esmé?”

“Esmé.” Patrick balls up the rag and rolls it onto the table. “Although, I’m hoping that with a little training, she can move crockery into the dishwasher, intact. In fact, I’m upping her chores list now that I know how easy they are for her.”

Jonny smiles, shaking his head like he can’t believe this calm, collected Patrick. “You’re not afraid. Even last night, outside the library, you weren’t afraid. You were a bit freaked out, but I couldn’t sense fear from you.”

“Afraid of the magic? No. Afraid of you? No. Afraid of the librarian? Maybe.”

“Gerda?” 

“Gerda,” Patrick agrees. “She’s _terrifying_. What is she anyway?”

Jonny hesitates before answering. “She wouldn’t thank me for discussing it, but she’s from a very old and well respected family of supersensories called se’ers. Her great-great-grandmother was incredibly affected. She saw it as an affliction, cursed to see a future that she couldn’t change, so she began to search for people who could help. She was the first to ally with a mage, and it began a tradition that remains strong to this day.” 

Patrick thinks about that for a few seconds. “So, you and Gerda are in cahoots? She, uh, sees, and then you mage? And you’re like a spooky duo, fighting curses on the mean streets of Eerie Falls?”

“That’s exactly what we are,” Jonny drawls. “Only, Gerda isn’t a se’er herself. She has, however, been around magic all of her life, and what she doesn’t know isn’t worth knowing. She’s been a huge help to me since I arrived.”

“But you’d never met before that night in the hall?”

Jonny’s head shakes. “No, we just immediately knew what the other was. It’s hard to explain, but I guess it’s an instinct. Like knows like.”

It’s almost a disappointingly normal answer to something that’s been bothering Patrick for a while. Normal, being relative, of course. “So, magic runs in families?” 

“Not yours,” Jonny says, amused. “You’re a complete muggle.”

Patrick had thought as much. “So, Mel then?”

“I think so. I know she was a florist, but I get a sense that she was… was she a really good with flowers?”

“She was _amazing_ with flowers,” Patrick says, remembering sprays and bouquets living for weeks in their home, taking over sinks and the bath, and any empty carton. “She had this knack for keeping them alive long after they should have been compost. Probably why hers was the only successful business in town.” 

“And was her name Melody, by any chance?”

“Yeah,” Patrick answers, surprised. “How did you know that? People always assumed it was Melanie.”

“Do you know her middle name?”

“Azur.” That was something that Patrick had only found out during their wedding ceremony, and he spent their short honeymoon teasing Mel about it. Well, until she told him to shut up, _Dimothy_.

Jonny smiles to himself, as if these are exactly the answers he was expecting. “Azur meaning blue. She was named for Blue Melody, which is a flower. _Camassia Quamash_. Sometimes I can smell it around you and Caroline, but it’s strongest around the girls.”

It’s a good few seconds before Patrick can even respond to that. His mouth works stupidly and silent, until he stutters — “Mel’s… around?”

“Not like a ghost, or anything that’s lost or hanging on,” Jonny says quickly. “But part of her remains close to the things she loved most — the earth, the flowers, the fresh air, her family.”

Patrick swallows tightly, his eyes stinging suddenly. “And Caroline,” he says, after clearing his throat. “Is she magic, too?”

Jonny shrugs. “It’s likely, but it’s hard for me to read her fully. There’s a horrible cloud of terror and anger around her. To be honest, it’s hard to be near it.”

Patrick scoffs. “You should try being on the direct end of it.”

“I know it sucks,” Jonny says sympathetically. “But grief follows a path that leads to acceptance, and Caroline just can’t walk it. She’s stuck, she wants to stay stuck, and she lashes out at anything that pushes her forward.”

Patrick knows. He’s been that punching bag for almost five years, and he really doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. “I’m worried about Beth,” he says, although worried is not the right word. Concerned, maybe, that she’ll feel left out of the magic gang, that she might wonder why she didn’t get any sort of gift.

It’s adorable how fondness washes over Jonny’s face at just the mention of her name. “You never have to worry about Beth,” he says, and it sounds oddly like a promise. “She’s going to be just fine.”

Patrick hopes so. “So, who’s magic in your family?”

“Everyone.”

“Everyone?”

“Yeah, me, my mom, my dad, and my brother.”

“All four of you? That’s...wow...that’s...” Patrick’s not even sure what it is. “Something you left out our conversation about your childhood in Canada.”

“Not really,” Jonny says, shrugging. “Everything I told you about growing up was true. Magic was just normal in our house. It’s not like those TV shows where people live magical lives and just pretend to the outside world that they’re regular people. We were — we _are_ — regular people. Me and Davy went to regular school, and Mom and Dad had regular jobs. When people came over, we weren’t hiding weird stuff and behaving any differently. We could bring our friends back without having to send a warning home first. We ate meals like other kids, and did chores like other kids, and went to bed early on school nights like other kids. The weirdest thing about our family was that we were really rich because my non-magic grandfather invented a type of beer widget. 

“And honestly? Magic was a lot of work. I remember Davy spending hours trying to change the TV channel without touching the remote, and I just couldn’t imagine a bigger waste of time. I wanted to be outside, in the water, or fishing, or playing sports, especially hockey. By the time I got into Shattuck, magic was just something that was back in Winnipeg. I never even thought about it. That’s why I never told TJ, not because I was hiding anything, but because it wasn’t who I was. It wasn’t a part of my life. So I wasn’t lying when I said that I never told anyone about what I could do before you. And thanks for being so understanding about that, by the way.”

Patrick rolls his eyes at the tease in Jonny’s tone. “Technically, you didn’t actually tell me, but, yeah, okay, I’m sorry.”

“You’re forgiven,” Jonny says grandly, smiling. “But I reserve the right to pull this out next time we have an argument.”

Patrick’s answering smile feels a little forced. “Let’s try to not do that for a while, huh?”

“Yeah,” Jonny says, soft.

It’s quiet for maybe a minute before Patrick says, “Tell me a bit more about what you can do. Feel free to throw in a few practical demonstrations if you feel they might be useful.”

The first demonstration is another magical slap in the face with the washcloth. “Knock it off,” Patrick says, laughing and throwing it back at Jonny, who sends it away again with a wave of his hand.

“I was always interested in healing and holistic medicine, even the non-magic kind,” Jonny says when Patrick is paying attention again. “So when I left UND, I travelled to study under the best maesters in the most powerful parts of the world. I learned at least something about every discipline. You’ve seen me move things, and there was that whole… last night, but that’s not my area. I’m not a conjurer or a psychokenist. I’m not even a healer in the traditional sense. I can’t just lay my hands on someone, and cure them. But what I can do is…” He stands up and walks to a cupboard. There’s a small box, a bit like a cough drop tin that he takes out and brings back to the table. “Give me your hand,” he says after he sits down again.

Patrick rests his forearm on the table and turns his palm over. Jonny plucks a small purple rock from his tin and puts into Patrick’s hand. “Do you know what that is?”

He doesn’t.

“It’s amethyst. The energy in it relieves inflammation and pain. If you hold it and focus, it will work, although it has limits. But if I…” He covers Patrick’s hand with his own and Patrick immediately feels the heat from the stone trapped between them. Jonny’s face is a picture of serenity even when the stone begins to vibrate, buzzing against their skin. The buzzing becomes a tickling, and Patrick stares, fascinated, as his fingertips begin to glow a lilac colour. He jolts a little when he feels the stone crumbles and his palm suddenly feels wet. Jonny lets go, and lifts his own hand away

Patrick looks down, watching the purple fade and disappear, and there is nothing there but his skin, dry and beige. “What did you do? Did you burst it?”

“Sort of,” Jonny says, pleased with himself. “It’s called sparking, and that’s my expertise. I can release the energy in all natural minerals, making it much more powerful. If you had been in any physical pain at all, it would be gone now.”

“And if I’d been a dog who was knocked down, I’d be fine, right?”

“Different stones, but same procedure, yes.”

Patrick makes a fist, and then relaxes it, but his hand feels just as it always did. A little tingly, maybe, but that might be more Jonny’s touch than the amethyst. “No wonder you’re so popular. But it’s also a bit theatrical. Don’t people notice when you’re… sparking?”

“People like Vinnie?” Jonny asks.

“For example,” Patrick says, shrugging.

“Well, I don’t always have to do emergency live shows. Some of what’s released can be stored in creams and ointments. But for extreme pain, it’s more effective to use the stone directly, and for those cases I use meditation and deep relaxation beforehand. Anyway…” Jonny stops, lips twisting to the side. “People see what they want to see, and they also tend not to question good fortune, especially when they’re really grateful for it.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that if people really wanted to piece the parts together, they probably could. It’s a little bit like how you weren’t really all that surprised when Esmé moved her bowl this morning. Or even when you saw the car. It was shocking, but at the same time, not really surprising, right?”

That pretty much sums it up. “I read Esmé’s story about the kid who’s buried under your tree,” Patrick says. “Is it a biography? Or is it one of those, um, what are they...stories that tell another story. You know, like The Lord of the Flies?”

“I haven’t read it,” Jonny says. “But if it’s the story about the son of Eliphas, it isn’t subtle enough to be an allegory.”

“So, it’s true?” 

“Not literally, no. There are scores of stories about the old town of Eyre. Gerda’s done a lot of research, and has archived a lot of them, but nobody really knows just what happened here. Only that it was something horrible and that the tragedy of it bled into the soil, poisoning everything -—the food, the water, the air. And the people. It’s what made everyone so unwell, what caused all the sickness and the misery. It’s why the crops can’t grow, or the fish won’t come to this part of the lake, or why baby animals rarely survive infancy.”

It says a lot about the past thirty hours that none of this sounds ridiculous to Patrick. “And where does the tree fit into all of this?” he asks.

“The Rowan?” Jonny looks out at the garden through the French doors to where the tree is shrouded in darkness. “It’s very powerful. The ancient druids believed that Rowans were portals between this world and the next. The Norse believed it was a Rowan that saved Thor from death. The Victorians placed Rowan branches over doors to ward off the evil eye.”

“And us,” Patrick asks. “What do we believe?”

Jonny smiles at the ‘we’. “ _We_ believe that it protects against malevolent forces and beings. We also think that the tree in the garden is about a hundred years old, which means it was planted by someone last century to neutralize the curse. It’s likely that it was forgotten again when the population grew and the land began to thrive once more. And when it was left to die, the protections died with it.” 

“But the tree is healing the land, right? That’s what was happening when I saw the orange glow that night?”

“Yes.”

“And when the land is fixed, things will grow again, and the people will be good?”

“That’s the plan.”

“And then what? Will you leave? Move on like the witchy version of the Littlest Hobo, go to where you’re needed next, to some other fucked up, miserable place?” Patrick thinks he keeps the hitch out of his voice, but he’s not sure, especially when Jonny does nothing but stare at him.

“Patrick,” he says eventually, rising from his seat. Patrick looks down at his hands, suddenly not knowing what to do with them. Fold them, leave them resting on his lap, let them swing by his side, use them to grab hold of Jonny and not let go again.

“Patrick,” Jonny says again, and he’s closer, tugging at Patrick’s hand, pulling him to his feet. “I might not be needed anymore, but I’m really hoping that I’ll still be wanted.”

That punches the breath clean out of Patrick. “You are,” he blurts, stepping forward to press their chests together. He reaches out to smooth across Jonny’s sandpapery cheeks, and cup behind his ears. “You are wanted,” and he keeps repeating it until Jonny kisses the words from his mouth. There’s more urgency than the last time they made out in a kitchen, more tongue, more groaning. There’s also some relief because Patrick had been worried that all this emotional turmoil might just have been too much for his delicate libido.

But he has no such concerns when he’s pushed up against the fridge, taking Jonny along by the belt loops of his pants. “No, no, no,” he moans when Jonny pulls back. “Just…”

Jonny shoves his face into Patrick’s neck, turning protests into a long, drawn-out _yeahhhhh_. It’s hot, Jonny’s hot, solid and hard against Patrick, his big hands running down Patrick’s arms, over his hips, and around to his ass.

“Yeah,” Patrick murmurs again when Jonny sucks a sloppy kiss just under his ear. “God, that’s good, Jonny, that’s —”

Gone. Patrick uncrosses his eyes to glare at Jonny, who seems to think that the outrage is cute. He leans in to kiss Patrick on the nose, and laugh. “You want to stay over?”

Yes, Patrick does. It seems like a really stupid question until he remembers, “Oh, the girls.”

“Oh, the girls,” Jonny mocks, his eyes soft as he teases Patrick. He presses in for one more kiss and then draws back with a regretful noise. “I’m going to clear the table, and put these leftovers into the fridge. My bedroom is the one at the back of the house. The girls can take any of the other rooms, although the one at the front has a king bed and an en suite.”

“Okay.” Patrick pushes away from Jonny, grunting at the weak effort. “Ugh,” he says, saluting Jonny’s laughter with his middle finger.

*****

The girls love the room at the front. 

“Do we live here now, Dad?” Beth asks, bouncing on the giant bed with her sister.

“No, we’re just having a sleepover,” Patrick says. “Which we might get kicked out off if you two don’t stop jumping on the furniture.”

“Beds aren’t the furniture, Dad,” Esmé says, just as her butt hits the mattress.

“And Jonny would never kick us out,” Beth adds, landing beside her.

“Okay, come on, up and under the comforter. Come on.” Patrick scoops them up and coaxes them under the quilt. It’s not all that difficult as the girls love the smell and feel of the fabric.

“Can we get one of these?” Esmé asks, squirming around, her nose buried in the soft cotton.

“We could have this one if we lived here,” Beth says, reasonably.

Patrick ignores that. “Did you guys turn off the faucet?”

“Yes,” they chorus back and show off their shiny teeth. 

“Jonny’s toothpaste tasted a bit funny, Dad,” Esmé says.

“I think he makes it himself,” Patrick says absently, tucking the comforter around the two small bodies. “Okay, do we want a story? Just a quick one, okay?” 

The girls shake their heads.

“No?” Patrick says, astonished.

“We want to go to sleep right now,” Esmé says. “Because when we wake up we can collect the eggs that the chickens laid.”

“And we eat the rest of the shrimp,” Beth says.

“Oh, well, okay.” Patrick’s not going to argue with this gift horse, certainly not if it gets him to Jonny’s bedroom sooner. He quickly kisses the girls goodnight, and then attempts to shoo Eugene Fitzherbert back downstairs. But the dog just blinks tragically at Belladonna, who is curled up on the windowsill, licking her paws.

“Fine,” Patrick says, pointing a warning finger. “But you’re not to get up on that bed.”

Eugene Fitzherbert happily accepts the condition, trotting over to settle beside the closet door.

“Goodnight, girls,” Jonny calls from behind Patrick. He’s leaning against the frame, touching the wood purposefully. 

“What was that?” Patrick asks once another round of goodnights has been passed around and the door is closed over.

“Noise spell,” Jonny says, reaching in to pull Patrick back into his arms. Patrick goes easily, his own hands finding their way to Jonny’s hips. 

“Noise spell?” 

“Mm-hmm.” Jonny presses the sound into the skin of Patrick’s neck, and then draws back, smirking. “I think what’s going to happen should be just for our ears, eh?”

It takes Patrick a few seconds to get what that means exactly, but that’s because Jonny goes right back to kissing his neck, which is beautifully distracting. “Oh,” he says, eyes fluttering open. “You mean… oh.”

“I mean.” Jonny laughs, and lets Patrick push him back towards his bedroom. 

It’s a bumpy journey made of stepped-on toes, knocked-into knees, and a tipped over side table, with a pit stop against a door jamb for some deep kissing and a quick grind, but once they get there, Jonny spins them around and gives Patrick a gentle shove. Patrick lands on the bed with an umph, and he hasn’t even stopped bouncing before Jonny is on him, kissing him again.

It’s dizzying, how good it is, how good Jonny is, pressed in the cradle of Patrick’s legs. His big hands move everywhere, like they can’t find their favorite part, and it all tips quickly into hard and urgent, until they’re gasping into each other’s mouths, grinding together like kids in the backseat of a car.

“Jonny,” Patrick pants, twisting his head to the side. “We have to...just, wait.”

Jonny grumbles but lifts his head. He’s a sight, lips wet and wide, eyes dark and unfocussed, and it makes Patrick dumb, makes him blurt, “I haven’t had sex in five years.” And when Jonny stares stupidly at him, too hot to have any right to be this cute, Patrick just makes it worse. “The last time I had sex, I was twenty-six, and I’m thirty-one now.” 

Christ. 

Jonny swipes a hand across his mouth. “Okay,” he says. “Do you want to stop?”

“No,” Patrick huffs, pushing himself up onto his elbows, ignoring the embarrassing blush he feels on his face. “But I don’t want to come in my jeans. I want, no, I _need_ to get them off me. And I want to see you...I just. Jonny, you don’t even know.”

“Hey,” Jonny says, and he ducks to kiss Patrick quickly before leaning back. “It’s okay. Whatever you want. And it’s been a while for me, too.”

“A five years while?” Patrick asks hopefully.

“Jesus, no, nothing that tragic.” And maybe Patrick likes laughing with Jonny as much as he likes kissing him, but his laughter chokes abruptly when Jonny sits back on his heels and peels off his t-shirt.

“Fuck,” Patrick whispers, awed. 

He moves likes he’s on fire, pushing Jonny onto his back, and climbing up to straddle his magnificent thighs. Patrick takes a moment, a few deep breaths so he can look at him, at his defined abs and tight pecs, nipples so hard it makes Patrick press his tongue on the roof of his mouth. Jonny shifts under him, the move bringing friction to Patrick’s dick and he blinks, inhales deeply past the haziness in his brain. There’s just… there’s just so much skin, and Patrick wants all up on it. 

He starts at Jonny’s neck. It would be a lie to say he hasn’t thought about putting his mouth there before, eyes lingering on the long line of it when Jonny wasn’t looking, an excited little jump in his core when Jonny tips his head back for it, easy like he’s been wanting that too. Patrick uses his lips, his tongue, his teeth, until Jonny tells him what he wants with soft grunts and high-pitched whines. It’s a shot of heat along his whole spine watching him like this, breathless and noisy, arching into Patrick’s touch every time he finds a place Jonny likes - a nipple, a spot under an armpit, a crease just above the navel - and tortures it with licks and noisy sucks. He’s always loved doing this, but Jonny’s something else entirely, and Patrick can’t get enough of the salty taste of his skin, or of the clean, deep smell of it in his nose.

“Patrick, please,” Jonny says, thrusting so his groin is level with Patrick’s mouth. His arm is thrown across his forehead, his eyes shut, but fluttering, a pretty flush across his face and down his neck.

“Okay,” Patrick says, pushing himself up. He skims a hand over the bulge in Jonny’s jeans just to see his hips jerk, smiling when Jonny grunts. “Okay,” he says again, unbuckling Jonny’s belt and making slow work with the zipper. Jonny helps, lifting his butt so Patrick can pull down his pants and his underwear in one not-quite-smooth move.

“Shit,” he gasps, staring at Jonny’s cock. It’s hard and thick, head red and pushing past the foreskin, leaking at the slit. Patrick can’t wait to get his mouth on it. “Can I -”

“Jesus Christ, Patrick,” Jonny says, which Patrick takes as a yes, please and thank you. He braces one hand on Jonny’s gloriously thick thigh, and wraps the other around the base of his cock. Jonny bucks like he’s been shot when Patrick licks up the soft velvet skin of the head and sucks it into his mouth. 

He hasn’t done this since he was in cop school, and for a moment he’s that age again, excited and horny, relishing the weight of cock in his mouth. He surprises himself a little even, with how much he hasn’t forgotten what to do, how naturally it comes back to him. 

He closes his eyes and takes Jonny’s cock in deeper, lips touching his own fist. He loves the push of it on his tongue like this, the stretch of his lips, and the way spit fills his mouth, slipping out to run along his chin, over his hand and knuckles. 

“Jesus,” Jonny says again, and Patrick is glad of that noise protection spell because he can’t get enough of how loud Jonny is. He hollows his cheeks and swallows down the shot of precome that follows, keeping his mouth tight just to make Jonny louder, to make him reach down and squeeze Patrick’s shoulder hard, to grunt out Patrick’s name urgently.

“I’m gonna…”

Patrick speeds up his hand and presses harder with his tongue. He’s not pulling off, he wants this.

Watching Jonny come is nothing short of a transcendental experience. He draws a knee up, and arches his back as his head presses right into the pillow. His whole body bows and shudders, and Patrick is so caught up in the sight of him that Jonny’s cock slips from his mouth before it’s stopped twitching, a stripe of come hitting him across the lips on the way.

He lifts his head so Jonny can see him swallow, and licks around his mouth to catch the rest, deliberate in his motion, watching Jonny watching him as he does it. Jonny’s eyes are wide and dark, his mouth open and wet, and his tongue swipes slow over his bottom lip, mirroring Patrick’s.

“Wow,” he says. 

Patrick is in total agreement. He drops his head and nuzzles into Jonny’s groin, not minding that he’s making the mess on his face worse. It’s nice here. He could stay for a while, but Jonny is pawing at him, almost shimmying Patrick up the bed with his giant legs.

“Wait,” Patrick says, and slides off the bed to strip off the rest of his clothes. He wants to feel all of Jonny against him. “Kiss me,” he demands, falling back into Jonny’s arms, and Jonny obliges. He rolls Patrick onto his side, hitching Patrick’s thigh over his own. 

“When I came here,” he mutters against Patrick’s mouth. “I knew what I’d find.”

“Yeah? Do you think you could find my dick,” Patrick says, and he feels Jonny smile against his mouth.

“I knew who everyone was,” Jonny continues, but he wraps a hand around Patrick’s cock, long fingers sure and strong, and Patrick guesses he can keep talking as long as he keeps stroking him like that, keeps sending zings of pleasure in his belly and down to his toes. “But not you. You, I wasn’t expecting.”

“Yeah,” Patrick breathes, hips beginning to shift. He pushes his face into Jonny’s neck, tasting the salt there. He mouths at the skin, grazes it with his teeth, and finds Jonny’s pulse, beating fast against his lips. 

“I can’t remember the last time I was really surprised,” Jonny whispers. “I can’t remember the last time somebody made me feel like I was falling over.”

“Me too,” Patrick says, nonsensically. Jonny’s hand is melting his spine, squeezing him just right, palm rubbing over the head on the upstroke, thumb swiping at the slit. 

“I can’t even explain...but since then, I… You’re — fuck, you’re so great. You’re amazing.” He bites down on Patrick’s earlobe just as he finishes saying that, and that’s enough to short out Patrick’s entire system, sending him crashing into an orgasm that washes over him from head to toe. He spills fast, coating Jonny’s fingers and both of their stomachs, shuddering through it, Jonny not letting up until he’s done. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, mouth dry and brain fried. “ _Fuck_.”

“Hmm,” Jonny agrees, flopping onto his back, but still holding onto Patrick’s thigh with his left hand. The right, he wipes on the bed sheet.

Patrick wrinkles his nose. “You couldn’t have summoned your magic washcloth?” 

“Not through a solid door, unfortunately,” Jonny says. “You okay?”

Patrick’s not sure he’s ever been better. He spends a few minutes drifting back to earth, synchronising his breathing with Jonny’s, feeling him warm and solid against him.

“Jon?”

Jonny makes a tired, enquiring sound.

“Jonnnny,” Patrick sings. “When you said that you weren’t expecting me…”

“What?” Jonny prompts when Patrick trails off. He opens one eye, and then the other. “You need more compliments? You want me to start compiling some top five lists? My favorite Patrick Kane body parts? My favorite Patrick Kane smiles? How about my favorite Patrick Kane -”

“How about you shut up,” Patrick says. “You’ve already embarrassed yourself enough with your Patrick Kane adoration. I don’t even know how long it’ll be before I can even look at you -” 

“Another five years, maybe?” 

There’s a bit of a tussle after that, but a lazy one, with neither of them putting in more effort than form requires. Patrick takes the win by landing a weak slap that barely makes contact before Jonny catches his hand, tangling their fingers together.

“It’s not about compliments, dumbass,” Patrick says. “I just want to know what you knew before you came here. Did you know who everybody was? And how does that work? Is there like a witch version of the bat signal that gets sent up to the sky, only they’re cat shadows or broomsticks or magic wands?”

“We’re never having sex again if it leaves you this dumb,” Jonny complains, but he pushes himself up on one elbow. The hand that’s still holding Patrick’s rests on Patrick’s belly. “A few months ago I was visiting friends in New York City. Our plans got cut short unexpectedly, I had some time to myself, and I decided to take a drive up and see this place that I had heard so much about when I was in training. I hadn’t even made it to the loop when I could sense Beth’s power —”

“Esmé’s,” Patrick corrects. It’s an easy mistake to make, although it’s Jonny’s first time making it.

“Huh?”

“Esmé’s power. You said Beth’s.”

“Yes,” Jonny says, frowning. “Because I meant Beth’s. It’s stronger than Esmé’s…” He’s still talking, but Patrick can’t hear anything but the whooshing in his ears, and he has that by now familiar feeling of the ground being pulled from under him. 

“Patrick!” It’s not a shout, but it’s sharp enough to suggests that it’s not the first time Jonny’s called him.

“Okay,” Patrick says, untangling his hand to sit up in the bed. 

Jonny sits up, too, spreading his arms out in a soothing gesture that frankly, just freaks Patrick out some more. “I thought you knew. You said… you said you were worried about Beth, and I said you didn’t have to be —”

“I meant I was worried that she might feel left out because she doesn’t have any magic.”

“Oh,” Jonny says. “ _Oh_. Well, it’s kind of the opposite, given that she’s twice as powerful as Esmé and I put together.”

“She is?” Patrick can feel his face doing all sorts of weird things, but none of this even makes sense. “Are you sure? I mean, Beth? Little, tiny, kind, sweet-natured Beth?” He looks over at the wall separating this room from the front of the house, to where the girls are sleeping, and —

“She’s an empath,” Jonny says. “She’s the only empath I’ve ever met. They’re incredibly rare”

“They are?”

Jonny nods. “Empaths are intuitive. They can read emotions, and they can soothe them. Just being in their presence has an immediate calming effect on anyone who’s stressed or anxious or afraid, or angry.”

Patrick would like to be in Beth’s presence right about now. He thinks of the hugs and the cuddles that often made him whole again. He thinks of Beth by Maud’s side on Halloween, reaching out to tap Elmer’s arm in the diner, sitting in the back of Jonny’s van with her injured dog, being Esmé’s shadow. “It doesn’t… it doesn’t hurt her, does it?” he asks, sick at the very thought of it.

“No, god, no,” Jonny answers immediately. “Not at all. It’s like she gives off this energy that can comfort other people. But that energy can’t be taken and it can’t be drained, okay? It will never be less or never be more. There’s no parasitic element to other people’s distress.”

That’s somewhat reassuring. “And that’s what makes her so powerful?”

“Not just that. Empaths are also very receptive, which means that they adjust to magic much quicker than mages. If Beth put a little mind to it, there’s nothing she can’t learn, nothing she can’t do. She’s amazing.”

Patrick frowns. “Did you geek out when you first met her?”

“Total fanboy moment,” Jonny answers, far too seriously. 

“So, she’s always going to be… better at this stuff than Esmé?”

“It’ll always come easier to her, yes.

God, that has the potential to sibling rivalry minefield. Patrick remembers his own sisters fighting over clothes and make-up and boys, and wonders if his own daughters will be fighting over who made the microwave explode, and who turned whom into a frog. 

“Does Beth know about what she can do?” He stops to think about what it is he’s really asking. “I mean, I think that’s why Esmé has been upset, you know, because she realized that moving stuff with her mind wasn’t exactly normal, and she was scared in case other people saw, or that she couldn’t control it, and she didn’t know how to tell me. And I don’t want that to happen again. I don’t want one of my children afraid of what they can do, and —”

Jonny gets two knees under him and uses them to scooch a little closer. The duvet slips away, reminding Patrick that he’s naked, they both are, and that they were having a very nice postcoital time before this latest shocker. 

“Patrick,” he says carefully, and it doesn’t feel like he’s being placating, just that it’s important that Patrick listens to him. “Beth isn’t worried or upset about anything. I don’t even know how much she consciously knows about her magic, but she definitely knows something, and she knows about Esmé for sure. But she’s not hiding anything from you, or scared to tell you something. It’s a bit like what I said earlier about TJ — I didn’t tell him about magic because it wasn’t important. And for Beth, it’s the same thing. It’s just no big deal. She comes to the store, and all she wants to do is clomp around in her high-heels, taking stock inventories, and talking to people on the phone. She’s Beth, and…”

“What?” Patrick prompts when he trails off.

“She’d be exactly the same child without her magic. You get that, right? She would be just as sweet and just as gentle, and would still love being around people. The magic, she gets from her mom, but this…” He reaches out to tap a finger on Patrick’s heart. “This is all you. And this…” The same finger travels to Patrick’s forehead. “Esmé gets this from you.”

“Her hairline?” 

“Fuck, no, I wouldn’t wish that disaster on anyone. I mean, her curiosity and her smarts. And she has your sense of humor, your mischief, and your stubbornness. Do you get what I’m saying? Magic is what the girls can do, but it’s not who they are, or who they’ll become. They’re great kids, and they’d still be great kids if they didn’t have any extra abilities.” 

Patrick had no idea how badly he needed to hear that until Jonny says it. They’re still his girls, before they’re anything else, they’re his girls, and nothing will ever be more important. 

“They’re just the best, Patrick,” Jonny says with such a dorky, Jonny-like earnestness that Patrick has to laugh.

“You really love them, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Jonny says, simply. “I really do.”

The sincerity of it kicks Patrick in the gut. “Is this another magic thing? Like is there a bond between you because of what you are?”

Jonny’s face says _it’s complicated_ , and he opens his mouth, probably to say something similar, but Patrick claps a hand over it before he can.

“You know what? No. Let’s just save that one, okay? I need to lie down, and we should make out again. How’s that?”

Jonny nods and licks Patrick’s palm, which leads to Patrick telling him he’s gross, and Jonny retaliating by pulling Patrick down with him and manhandling them both into a position that involves a lot of tangled naked limbs.

“Are you okay?” Jonny asks. He whispers the words into Patrick’s ear and then kisses the shell of it.

“Weird day,” Patrick answers. “Do you think we could hold off on anymore revelations until tomorrow? I think I might be passed my limit.”

“I’m sure anything else can keep.”

“Cool, now kiss me until I fall asleep.”

“You’re not the boss of me,” Jonny says, before doing exactly what Patrick demanded.

*****

Patrick wakes up a while later with tingling lips. They hadn’t actually kissed each other to sleep, just until they got tired and their jaws started to hurt. He shifts a little in the bed, feeling sticky. It’s hotter than he’s used to, but then, he’s not used to sharing a bed with someone bigger than him. Jonny’s like a furnace lying beside him, radiating heat like it’s his job.

Patrick twists in search of a cool spot on the mattress, and feels a twinge in his bladder. After five minutes of trying and failing to ignore it, he gets out of bed and gropes around the floor for something to wear. He finds someone’s boxers and someone’s t-shirt.

On the way back from the bathroom, he pauses outside the room the girls are in, and after a few seconds, he pushes the door open. The sudden light from the landing makes Beth do a vampire-in-the-sun twist, screwing up her eyes tight and then carefully slitting them open. Esmé doesn’t so much as budge.

“Sorry,” Patrick whispers. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I was already awake,” Beth whispers back, without a trace of grogginess.

“Oh? How come?”

“I was thinking.”

“You were?” Patrick considers stepping into the room, but there’s no room for him on the bed now that the number of occupants totals four. Belladonna is curled under a sheepish Eugene Fitzherbert who is refusing to make eye contact with Patrick. Patrick is changing his name to Fido tomorrow. “Wanna tell me what you’re thinking about?”

“Sure,” Beth says, volume still low. “I was thinking about going on Junior Masterchef. I might win. And I was thinking about the tutu that Aunt Erica showed me on the laptop. It’s a tutu with lights in it, Dad, and I might ask Santa to bring me one. Then I could wear it on Junior Masterchef.”

“Cool. Anything else?”

She frowns at him, as if she’s feeling criticized. “That’s a lot, Dad.”

He really wants to go in there, pick her up, and not put her back down until she’s twenty. But he’d end up disturbing everybody else on the bed. Also, he’s not even sure these are his boxer shorts that he’s wearing, so maybe it’s best that he stays where he is. 

“That sure is a lot,” he says, smiling. “And I’m going to let you get back to it, but go to sleep soon, okay?”

She promises she will, and there’s a quick round of love you-s before Patrick shuts the door again, feeling better than he did before he opened it. He goes back to Jonny’s bed, shucking the boxers and the t-shirt on his way under the comforter. He thinks about closing the drapes, but he likes how the moon lights the shadows of the room, especially the one in the middle of the bed.

“There’s an en suite in this room,” Jonny says. He doesn’t sound freshly awake.

“Didn’t want to wake you with the flush,” Patrick lies. He wriggles onto his side, mirroring Jonny’s position, a foot of space between them. They blink at each other for a moment, and then Jonny’s hand reaches out to cup around Patrick’s hip.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Is it about the en suite?”

Jonny’s lips quirk. “Is Beth okay?”

“She’s fine,” Patrick answers. “So, what’s this thing you want to tell me? I thought we were saving a few surprises for tomorrow.”

“It’s not a surprise,” Jonny scoffs, pinching Patrick’s waist. “It’s a secret… about me. About something I’ve done.”

“Oh, a torrid confession,” Patrick says, more than a little thrilled. “Those are my favorite.”

He gets another pinch for that, and retaliates by kicking Jonny’s ankle. Jonny gets quiet then, for long enough that Patrick is feeling less thrilled and a little concerned. He’s about to ask if he’s okay when Jonny starts speaking in a voice barely above a whisper.

“You were right when you said that I must have been good at hockey. I was really good, like, _really_ good. NHL good. When I was at UND, scouts came to see me all the time, every game. There was a lot of talk about the draft. Some thought I might go top ten.”

Patrick whistles. “Impressive.”

“Yeah. Anyway, while we were all waiting for our NHL glory, we were slogging our guts out for the Broadmoor Cup. Sweeping it up that year, playing St. Cloud in the final, you know? Third period, even score. I got two minutes in the box for a dumbass boarding, and I was so mad. I didn’t even sit down, I was just bouncing, waiting to get back out there. And then there was maybe twenty seconds on the PP left, when —” He stops with a sigh. “I’d like to say it was a great play by their kid, Hooton, but it was more a fuck up by our short-handed team. What should have been an easy clear-away ended up on the toe of his stick, and I remember so clearly just standing there, seeing the puck heading to our net, and thinking, _no, no, no, stop_.”

Jonny’s face finishes the story, and Patrick knows what he did. It cracks his heart wide open.

“The puck froze just somewhere before the line, and then TJ swiped it and went on the breakaway. I was back on the ice when he scored. Thirty seconds after that the game was over, and we were winners.” He makes a sick parody of a smile. “Yay!”

“Oh, Jonny,” Patrick says. He slides his hand down to the one Jonny has on his hip, and links their fingers together, squeezing tight.

Jonny squeezes back. “That was the last game of hockey I ever played.”

“I’m so sorry. But you didn’t mean to.”

“No,” Jonny agrees. “I didn’t mean to, but it still happened.” His eyes drop to watch their hands. “I went to see a maester to find out if I could learn some controlling techniques, anything that would let me play again. But the too-long-don’t-read version of that is, no. My magic would always be unpredictable, harder to control, when it came to something that I really loved.” 

“It had never happened before?”

Jonny’s head shakes. “No, but I never wanted anything more than I did at that exact moment.”

“Bummer,” Patrick says, in what is possibly the greatest understatement of the night. “But, hey, at least it never happened again.”

Jonny stares at him, like Patrick has missed something important. “Yes, Patrick, it did,” he says pointedly. “Do you remember the night you came up to the Mourns for dinner, and —”

“Oh,” Patrick says, trying to roll away in horror, but Jonny tightens the hold on their hands. “Oh my god, I made you play that hockey game, and you didn’t want to, but I kept pushing and pushing, and —”

“Stop,” Jonny says, tugging until Patrick stills. “That’s not what I’m saying. I still play hockey video games, Patrick. Nothing that happened that night had anything to do with hockey.”

Patrick’s lost. “I don’t…” 

“Did you hear what I said? About my magic?”

“Yes?” Patrick says, puzzled. “You said that it was harder to control when it came to something you love?”

He must be missing something really obvious, because Jonny is looking at him like he’s an idiot. 

“You take your time,” Jonny says. “I’ll wait. Actually, I think I have a book over here —” He’s twisting away but Patrick stops him with some leg hooking and tugging until they’re pressed together, chest to chest.

Because, oh. _Oh._

“That was me?” he says, stunned. He wonders if Jonny can feel how loud his heart is thumping.

“Really? That’s what you’re taking from this? An ego trip?”

Patrick rolls his eyes, mostly at himself. “I love you, too. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Jonny echoes, biting his lips.

Patrick leans in for a quick kiss to seal the deal. “But, really, that night was you losing control of your magic because of your feelings for me?”

“It certainly wasn’t because of my feelings for the Dark Destroyer.”

Patrick winces. “Oh, sorry about that dick. If it helps, I think he’s gone forever.”

“It helps,” Jonny says, laughing as he dips to kiss Patrick again. “It’s what I was saying earlier, about how you surprised me, how I wasn’t expecting you. It threw my magic off, that night and last night outside the library. It was making me crazy. _You_ were making me crazy.”

“I feel so powerful,” Patrick says, awed by himself. “Hey, did you make the duck blow —.”

Jonny kisses him, probably just to shut him up, and it’s a bit bitey at first, but quickly softens to something sweeter. Patrick moans and leans into it, into Jonny’s palm as it sweeps down his back, pulling them closer until their cocks brush together. They gasp into each other’s mouths, rocking together, unhurried and gentle until Jonny reaches down to stroke them both to full hardness with one hand.

“God,” Patrick murmurs, and then lets out a much less smooth squawk when something hits him in the back. “Hey,” he complains when the lube falls down beside them. “You really have to stop hitting me in the head with flying objects.”

“Sorry,” Jonny says, not sounding remotely sorry. Patrick might call him on it but Jonny is squirting a generous pool of the lube into his palm, and if Patrick has ever known anything, it’s when to choose his battles.

“Okay?” Jonny asks, reaching down between them again.

“Oh yeah,” Patrick says. He slips his own hand down to join Jonny’s, and it’s a delicious slide of fingers, lube and cock for them to thrust into.

It stays slow and lazy, and every pull winds the tension in Patrick’s belly, tighter and tighter until he freefalls into orgasm, crying out as he pulses over their joined hands. Jonny’s just seconds behind him, hips losing rhythm and stuttering a little wildly until he grunts and adds his own mess to Patrick’s.

They kiss for a while, sloppy and slow, all tongue and spit. 

“We’re gross,” Jonny says, and Patrick agrees, but goes right back to kissing him. Eventually, though, they have to pull apart to deal with it. That involves Jonny picking up a t-shirt from the floor and rubbing it across their bellies and groins.

“We should probably burn that thing tomorrow,” Patrick snorts as Jonny spoons up behind him. 

Jonny laughs and presses a kiss into Patrick’s hair. “We’ll have a bonfire,” he says.

“Hmm,” Patrick agrees, feeling himself beginning to drift. He’s maybe seconds from sleep when something occurs to him. 

“What?” Jonny mumbles before Patrick has even decided if he’s going to say anything.

“Shouldn’t I ground you?” 

“What?”

“I mean, isn’t that what’s supposed to make a healthy relationship? When people ground each other, when they’re, you know, solid for each other.”

“Patrick,” Jonny says with measured patience. “I’m the most grounded person I know. I really don’t need more grounding.”

Patrick thinks about that for a minute. “I think I know what you’re saying here, Jonny.”

Jonny sighs heavily. “I’m saying let me sleep, Patrick.”

“You’re saying that I let you fly.”

“No, I really am saying you should let me sleep.”

“That you can fly higher than an eagle.”

“I think we should break up.”

“Because I am the wind —”

Jonny’s hand claps over Patrick’s mouth. “ _Go to sleep_.”

“Never,” Patrick promises when he’s allowed to speak again.

He’s out cold about five seconds later.

*****

When Patrick wakes up again, he’s alone, and it’s morning. The drapes on Jonny’s windows aren’t especially heavy, and Patrick guesses it’s somewhere around 9am from the light shining through them. 

He stretches languidly, toes and fingers flexing against the comforter, enjoying the space and warmth. His neck cranes as he takes in what he hadn’t bothered to look at last night. The furniture is all natural, untreated wood, and heavy rugs are scattered around the floor to absorb chills and noise. Neutral, restful colors are freshly painted on walls that are also adorned with trinkets and talismans. Patrick wonders if they had anything to do with how well he slept last night.

Although, some of that was probably down to Jonny.

He smiles at the memory, and runs a hand down his belly. The dried flaking come should make him feel gross, but it just makes his cock twitch and wish that Jonny was still here.

His stomach, though, reminds him that he has other needs as it rumbles under his hand. Food, he decides, swinging his legs over the mattress, but first a wash. He rummages through Jonny’s closet, finding a clean t-shirt and sweatpants, and then makes himself at home in the shower of Jonny’s en suite, letting the hot spray beat away the last remnants of sleep.

Once downstairs, he follows the noise coming from the kitchen. The table is set for breakfast - everything in fours, plates, bowls, glasses, cutlery. Patrick’s jacket is on the back of one of the chairs and he reaches inside for his wallet. It seems like the right time, he thinks, removing and unfolding both Good News Notes. He puts one where Beth sat for dinner last night, and the other where Esmé was. 

This is going to be the loudest breakfast ever.

The girls and Jonny are in the garden, and Patrick pads to the French doors to watch them unseen for a minute. It’s a beautifully crisp winter morning, the sun low in the sky, casting morning shadows across the garden. The girls’ breath is foggy mist as they chatter to each other and Jonny. Esmé is chasing after a chicken, a basket swinging precariously in the crook of her arm. Beth is standing nearby, eating what Patrick assumes is the leftover shrimp straight from the carton with her fingers. 

Jonny is watching them both, a mug of something hot in his hand.

At the end of the garden, the soil around the Rowan Tree is pulsing with an orange glow. Nobody else seems to be finding this strange, so Patrick decides to do likewise.

“Dad,” Beth yells when she spots him. “Jonny said we can get a Christmas tree today.”

“And a goat, Dad,” Esmé shouts. “Jonny bought a goat and we’re going to collect her and her name is Shenanigans, Dad.”

“Cool,” Patrick says, just as Jonny turns to him. His smile sends Patrick’s stomach into a flutter.

“Hi,” Patrick says, smiling right back.

Jonny holds out his mug in invitation, and Patrick steps outside and right into his happy ever after. 

 

The End


End file.
